


A Love That Will Never Grow Old

by bjfic_archivist



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Angst, Canon, Drama, Future, Points of View, Romance, Season/Series 05
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-04-26
Updated: 2006-08-27
Packaged: 2018-12-26 22:34:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 82,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12068331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bjfic_archivist/pseuds/bjfic_archivist
Summary: Post-513. Basically a "Season 6" since Ihatedthe way they ended the series. This is what I've decided happened next. I tried to write everyone true to character as they were in the series. I hope I succeeded, and that everyone enjoys.This story will be 20 chapters long. It's my first QAF fanfic -- actually my first fanfic of any kind -- so please be gentle! It is not beta-ed.The title is inspired by a song from Brokeback Mountain.





	1. 1 - Never Again

**Author's Note:**

> Note from IrishCaelan, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Brian_Justin_Fanfiction_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in September 2017. I posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/bjfic/profile).

  
Author's notes: The first couple of chapters will be PG rated (for language), but later chapters will get steamier.  


* * *

**Justin’s POV**

Laying on the futon in Jessica’s living room, the endless echo ricochets around my head giving the impression that my skull is empty and cavernous. With each reverberation, my heart sinks lower. They were meant to be comforting in some abstract way, those two little words. But instead something died in me the moment they were uttered. They’re out there now, floating in the universe, giving them credence, the potential for truth. I can’t…no, I _won’t_ accept that.

I look at the clock. 4:18. He should be home. It’s past 3:00 after all. Of course, the rules don’t really apply anymore. Or do they? No, I guess not. Why would they? Still, I pick up my cell and press 1 on my speed dial. 

"Hello?" In that one word he tells me everything. He sounds like his very soul has been sucked out of him, and not in a fun way. His voice is flat and lifeless, without any indication he's in the least bit drunk or stoned. So he didn't even go out. Imagining him sitting alone in the loft, his only companion the void I left, I instantly know there are worse things than his customary pain management mode. Guilt stabs at my heart. 

“You said, ‘Never again.’”

“What?”

“You said it didn’t matter if we saw each other next weekend, next month, or never again. It won’t be never again. You know that, right?”

“I was just trying to say…”

“I don’t care what the fuck you were trying to say. We may not have gotten married, and we might not even be together…officially, as a couple or whatever. But we still love each other just as much, if not more. You’re not getting rid of me so easily, Mr. Kinney. Are we clear? I need you in my life.”

“You don’t need me. You don’t need…”

“Anyone. All I have is myself.”

“Don’t…”

“Finish your sentences. I know.”

I can almost hear him smile.

*************************

**Brian’s POV**   


In some ways he’s so much older than I’ll ever be. But in others he’s still that naïve 17 year old I took home that night. That night that in so many ways irreversibly changed both of our lives. I hang up, amused and saddened at the same time by his confidence that we’ll always be in each others lives. I, on the other hand, have no illusions. We’ll talk on the phone, probably often at first. Even visit back and forth. Then he’ll gradually get busy with his career, friends, life, and the calls will become less frequent. Eventually he’ll meet some guy… some guy he won’t have to drag kicking and screaming into love and who, Christ, won’t take five years to tell him. It’s inevitable. He’s bright, he’s talented, he’s hot.  Most of all he’s so unflinchingly willing to keep his heart wide open. Not to mention he’s pretty fucking amazing in bed. I feel the corners of my mouth turn up a little at that thought, since I deserve a lot of credit for his considerable skill. Except for blow jobs. He was a complete natural when it came to them. Some weird kind of prodigy. I concede, if only to myself, that he blows me away in that area (pun intended). Slowly he’ll move on with his life, and I’ll ultimately just be a memory. His first love. A story he’ll tell new boyfriends and probably someday his kids. 

Of course, he’s mine too. First love, that is. The difference is that I won’t go there again. Never again. I knew what I was talking about when I stuck to fucking. A maximum of pleasure with the minimum of bullshit. Amen, brother.

I mean, shit, I knew I’d veered badly off track those first few nights in the hospital, when all I could think was that if he died I might as well too. I tried to tell myself it was just that I felt responsible. After all, Hobbs wouldn’t have taken a bat to his head if I hadn’t shown up at the prom, right? Still, I couldn’t bring myself to regret those ridiculously romantic moments on the dance floor. I consoled myself with the notion that it was my no regrets policy. But when he couldn’t remember our dance, the force of the pain took my breath away. He gazed at me that night with all the adoration of a teenager in love and declared it was the best night of his life. What rocked me to my core was that my brain, though not my lips, shot back, “Mine too.” I was the kind of happy I didn’t even recognize. For about 30 seconds. And then… Stop it, Kinney. Don’t think about that.

But it didn’t really hit home until Debbie, point blank, cornered me. “Admit the truth. You love him, don’t you?” My reflex, the one that should have barked back “I don’t believe in love,” just wouldn’t kick in. And I knew she was right. He’d gotten under my skin without my even noticing.  

How did I get here? I liked my life. No, I fucking _loved_ my life. Then I had to see that little shit under a lamppost and bring him home. Nothing’s been the same since. 


	2. 2 - Revelations

**Justin’s POV**   


When you’re having a bad day, never tell yourself at least it can’t get worse. It just invites trouble. That dangerous thought sneaks in as I drag myself up the four flights to the apartment. Maybe I’ll put on my favorite tight sleeveless shirt and ass hugging jeans and head out to the clubs tonight. Fuck away the residue of a shit day. Have I really adopted Brian’s pain management technique so completely? Not that it works any better for me than it does for him, although he’d deny it. Maybe I’ll call him. That usually lifts my mood.

Stepping inside I’m greeted by Jessica and her boyfriend mid-fuck on the futon. Great. I need this right now? Of course, it doesn’t escape me that he’s got a fantastic ass. 

“Justin!” she screeches, leaping up and wrapping the sheet around herself, her boyfriend whipping around and giving me a show. Helloooooo, Tony! Seems his ass is only his second best feature. I wonder if he ever… “I thought you said you’d be home really late.”

Suddenly the random appearance of fresh sheets on the futon now and then, sometimes just a day or two after I’ve changed them, makes sense. “Sorry. I just came home for, um, my mail. Have fun, you two.” I grab my pile and dash out the door. Back to my studio, I guess. I hate the thought. I sat there for hours today staring at a blank canvas, totally blocked.  But at least I have some privacy there. It’s barely more than a closet and more of a dump than my last place in Pittsburgh, but the light is amazing and it meets my financial requirements. I wish I could afford my own place too, but there’s no way I can swing it yet. I can’t really complain anyway. Jessica won’t take any money from me other than my half of the utilities. Says her parents pay her rent. And for the most part she’s a great roommate. She reminds me of Daphne. No wonder they’re friends.

Four letters arrived from galleries where I submitted my work for consideration. One by one I open each rejection. Shit. So much for Simon Caswell’s worthless opinion. Nearly a month and I haven’t gotten a single bite. Chastising myself for my impatience, I bear in mind a month is nothing. And that review is the only reason I’m actually getting in the door to even be considered. Most people have those doors slammed in their face.

I open the rest of the mail. Bill...bill...bill. At this rate, my money’s going to disappear faster than condoms at an orgy…or at the loft. Time to take advantage of the money making opportunities I have. Picking up the phone, I dial the store. 

“Hi, Michael.”

“Justin?”

“None other. How are you? Ben? Hunter?”

“We’re all fine, thanks. How are things in the Big Apple.”

“I’m settling in. I called because I was thinking, now that Rage and JT are back from their honeymoon…”

“What?”

“The next issue. I was thinking…”

  
“What the fuck are you talking about? We’re not doing any more issues.”

“Why not?”

“Why not? Uh, how about because Rage and JT are married now. And you and Brian spl…aren’t.”

“It’s not inconceivable for us to come up with storylines that aren’t directly out of our own lives, you know. We had Rage and JT get married when we both thought the concept of Brian proposing was pure fantasy.”

“I guess, but wouldn’t it be too painful?”

“That’s funny. You asked me the same thing when you had the idea to use our personal lives as the story in the first place. Yes, it will be painful. But some of the best art comes out of pain. Besides, New York is expensive as hell. I need the money.”

“What about Brian?”

“I’m not taking money from Brian.”

“That’s not what I meant. You’re not the only one it would be painful for. Don’t you care? First you leave him and then you want to twist the knife.”

“Of course I care. I still love him, Michael. And I didn’t leave him…exactly. He practically pushed me out the door. He’s the one who convinced me that I had to take this shot.”

“Sure he did. Because it’s what he thinks you need. Remember my thirtieth birthday?”

I knew what he was getting at. I thought back to that party, Brian pushing him off the proverbial cliff, outing him to that girl from the store. And afterwards, after we made love on the chaise, licking ice cream off of each other, he told me it didn’t matter if Mikey hated him as long as he was happy. Brian was so miserable, utterly devastated. But he believed it was for Michael’s own good.

“He’s trying to hide it as usual, but he misses you so much it’s killing him. He hangs out at our place all the time, or I go over to the loft and find him moping around. I thought reopening Babylon would help, but being there only seems to make him sadder. And each time I think I see him recovering just a little, he talks to you. Next thing I know he’s back to square one.”

I knew it would be tough on him when I left. Even tougher than it was for me – it’s always harder for the one left behind. The same life minus a huge chunk instead of a whole new world to focus on. But it was easier not to think about it when I didn’t have to watch him go through it. Michael didn’t have that advantage.

“Don’t be so selfish, Justin. If you love him, you’ll leave him the fuck alone.”

“MICHAEL!” 

I jump, my heart racing. The voice instantly reminding me if what inspired our superhero’s moniker. There’s a clunk that must be Michael, as startled as I was, dropping the phone. I could still make out the entire conversation, though. Brian was angrier than I’ve ever heard him. Even angrier than when I found out about his cancer.

 

*************************

**Brian’s POV**   


I saunter into the store just in time to hear Michael tell Justin to leave me alone. The fury explodes inside me so quickly and so powerfully I feel the blood throbbing in my head, like an artery’s going to blow. I grab his arms, shaking him like a rag doll.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

“Ow! Brian, let go. That really hurts!”

  
“Stay the FUCK out of it, or I’ll do a lot worse than this.”

All of a sudden I had flashbacks of Jack, but from his side of the insanity. The uncontrollable anger. Fuck. I will NOT act like him. I immediately drop Michael’s arms as if they scalded me, feeling a sick flip in the pit of my stomach when I see the look of alarm and fear in his eyes. How often had looked through eyes like that? He’s relieved when I release him, his eyes recovering, and his voice gets that consoling tone I fucking hate. The pity voice.

“Brian, he’s starting a whole new life. If he keeps calling you it’s just going to stir up everything again. You’ll never get over him and move on. You’ll never fall in love again.”  


His stupidity astonished me. “What the fuck are you talking about? Do you really think I would _ever_ fall in love again?”

The silence is painfully long. But I see he’s working up to something. Finally, he stammers “I was sure you’d never fall in love in the first place, Mr. I Don’t Believe in Love.” Then, his voice even lower, “And sure I…I knew, but I never actually heard you say it out loud before, that you fell in love with him.”

“For Christ’s sake, Mikey, I was going to marry him. You don’t think I told him I loved him?”

“I don’t know,” sounding like a little boy whose favorite toy had broken. “I guess I just thought you’d never say it…and anyway I don’t think I really believed you’d go through with the wedding. I mean, even after you sent out the announcement you told me that you were doing it to make Justin happy.”

“And you’re the one who called me on it. Mikey, do you remember when they wanted to throw Justin out of school because of his hand? He told us he convinced the dean in part by explaining that after what happened he didn’t see things the same way. That’s what the fucking bomb did to me. The second I heard the news break on the radio, I felt like my world just went out from under me. Practically everybody I give a shit about was there, but all I could think about was him. I know, that’s shitty to say to you, but it's the truth.” He nodded, understanding. “I called his cell over and over, but he didn’t answer. Then I got there, scanned the chaos for him, and saw Jennifer. She told me he was still inside, and even though they were trying to get everyone out, telling me it was too dangerous to go in, I had to find him. It was like when he got hit all over again. I kept picturing his head, his whole body, soaked in blood. Completely limp like he was…” A shiver so strong it’s nearly a seizure overtakes me. I squeeze my eyes shut and force the image from my mind. “Except I was ten times as scared, because I loved him so much more by then.”

Michael looked like he just had a bat taken to his own head. “More? You mean you already _loved him_? Way back then?” 

“You knew that. Everybody fucking knew but me.”

“Not really. I didn’t know for sure until you punched me at Mel and Linds’s anniversary party, when I said he wasn’t worth saving and you should have left him blee…”

That horrific image leapt back at me, reigniting my anger, and I lit into him again. “Do you really want to remind me of what you said? That you pretended you hated him because you’re so valiantly loyal and he’d dared to leave me? Bullshit. All those years you convinced yourself the only reason I never fell in love with you was that I wouldn’t fall in love with anyone. Couldn’t proclaim enough that I didn’t believe in it. But then there he was. And it crushed you, because you knew, probably before anyone, that I loved him. Your jealousy brought out your dark side. Don’t try to tell me you weren’t thrilled when he walked out, Mikey. You didn’t give a fuck about me. You were just relieved he was finally gone so we could launch another tour of the Brian and Mikey show.”

His head drops, but the shame visibly sweeps over him. Shit. Too harsh. Not that it isn’t true, but I probably shouldn’t have said it. He’s so fucking sensitive. Sighing, I go to work softening it (oh, do I hate that phrase). I put my hands on his shoulders. “Listen to me, Mikey. Are you listening?”

“I’m listening” he barely gets out, chin still tucked tight against his chest.

“You have to accept that I’m always going to love him. Even if I never see him or talk to him again. It’s a permanent condition.” I shake him, gently this time. “Like I’ll never stop loving you.” I hunch down, searching for his eyes. “Always have, always will.” He finally raises his head and I plant a big, long kiss on his lips. Then I add, “So if you ever tell him to stay out of my life again, I’ll break your fucking neck. Got it?”

He sniffs, “Got it.”  
  


*************************

**Justin’s POV**   


The bell on the door jangles, alerting me that Brian must have walked out. I hang up quickly, before Michael retrieves the phone and asks if I heard anything. I can’t deal with that right now.

A barrage of thoughts and emotions batter me at once, making me dizzy. I can’t even focus on any one individually to begin process it all. Taking slow, measured breaths, I press my palms to my eyes.

Really, it all comes down to one thing. I know he loves me. Not only because he finally told me, but Brian Kinney actually _proposed_ for fuck’s sake. Can’t get a clearer message than that. But how deeply, how profoundly he apparently loves me, and for how long, that’s a lot to absorb. The prom? The fucking prom? Sure, it was obvious he cared about me then (although he wouldn’t even admit to that much), but that was before I even dared hope it might be love. Jesus Christ, Brian! All those years. Everything I went through…he went through… _we_ went through. It’s mind boggling. Beyond frustrating. Infuriating. Heartbreaking. 

Details of the conversation start trickling through in more digestible tidbits. Like, I always wondered what that punch at the party was about. It was so out of character I knew it had to be something extreme. But to discover he actually punched Michael…Michael of all people…because of some crack about me, even after I lied to him and walked out the way I did. And the verbal attack he just unleashed, purposefully targeting the very place that would hurt the most, just for telling me to leave him be. It dissolves any small question I might have had left of where I stand. 

But more than anything, I relive hearing him say he’d always love me. Only me. I lock that away in the vault where I guard my most treasured memories: the first time he said “I love you,” his proposal, our first night together, the first time he let me top him. But at the same time, my chest tightens at the daunting responsibility I suddenly realize I bear. This man who guards himself like Fort Knox has relinquished the only copy of the key to me. And what I do with it is critical.

The ring of my cell phone interrupts my train of thought. I look down at the screen. Brian.

I brace myself and answer. “Hey, what’s up?”

“Unfortunately not me.”

“That’s rare.”

“Thankfully. Ignore Mikey. He forgets I’m not some fucking lesbian on the verge of a breakdown because my relationship has…turned into whatever the fuck it is now.”

Relationship. It still gives me a twinge of joy when I hear him acknowledge us that way. “He’s just trying to look out for you.”

“Yeah, well I’m a big boy.”

“You certainly are!” I say in my best seductive voice.

“True, there’s that. But I also don’t need anybody looking out for me.”

“Maybe not. But try to appreciate how lucky you are to have people in your life who care so much. You know you’d be doing the same thing for him if the situation was reversed.”

 “All right. I’ll take it easy on him, Father Taylor. Talk to you soon.”

“Wait, Brian…”

“What?”

“I love you.”

His voice breaking, he says, “Later.”


	3. 3 - Homecoming

  
Author's notes:

I finally wrote in a little action. Actually, this chapter is mostly action!

* * *

**Justin’s POV**   


One ring. Two. Three. I want to scream, “PICK UP!” My excitement is unquestionably getting the best of me. Finally, just before I would have been tossed to voice mail, I hear him answer. “Hey, you.”

“Hey! I need a favor.”

“Another one? Haven’t I done enough for you already?”

“I need you to pick something up for me next Thursday night.”

“Gladly. Can I use him before I pass him on?”

I was smiling so hard my face actually hurt. “Shut up. I’m talking about me! I’m coming in for Molly’s play.”

“I thought you said she didn’t get the part she wanted and was barely even in it, so you, how did you put it, ‘couldn’t have less interest if it was a lecture on feminine hygiene products.’”

“I couldn’t.”

“So why are you coming in?”

“Can’t imagine.” I coo. “So, will you pick me up?”

“Already did that. About five years ago.”

“Well, I thought we could relive that magical night…with the exception of the birth of your child of course.”

“Eh, I don’t know. I’ve already had you.”

“I was thinking maybe I’d have you.”

“Keep thinking.”

“Fine. I’ll ask my mom to come get me. It’s a shame though. I had some very enticing plans.” 

“Is that so? Want to let me in on them?”

“I thought I’d start by kissing you on the side of your neck where it makes you crazy.”

“I’m intrigued. What else did you have in mind?”

“Then I planned to peel your shirt off and lick every inch of your chest, stopping to swirl my tongue over your nipples before lightly blowing on them.”

His voice is husky, and I can tell he’s begun touching himself. “Uh huh. And next?”

“I was going to kiss my way down your stomach, remove your pants, and use my teeth to lower your underwear.”

“Your teeth, huh?”

“Mmmm hmmm.” My own hand found my crotch, and I rub myself through the thick fabric. 

“That would have been hot.”

“Then I thought I’d take you whole into my mouth, sliding up and down…up……...and down until you were pounding the back of my throat.”

Heavy breaths and guttural noises are clearly the only response I'm going to get from here on. I free my own throbbing dick and stroke it, matching his pace.

“My hands would have skimmed your hips, wrapping around you and massaging your ass. My fingers would have teased you, tracing down your crack, then back up and then I’d repeat it, but with a little more pressure. Then they would have pressed inside, working their way toward your hole, circling with my finger as you fuck my mouth harder, faster, my throat squeezing as I swallow… ”

Like a mother can interpret the varied cries of her child, I’m intimately familiar with his every grunt and groan, aware of the meanings behind each one. Hearing the sounds that announce he’s on the verge of an orgasm and the ones that broadcast its arrival left me needing only a few quick strokes to get there myself.

We compose ourselves in silence until he finally pipes up, “You know, if it means that much to you, I suppose I could pick you up.”

“I thought you might.”

“Hey, Sunshine, you give great phone.”

“Never underestimate an artist extraordinarily inspired by his subject. I’ll email you my flight information. I can’t wait to see you.”

His voice laden with sincerity, he responds, “Me either.” 

 

*****************************

**Brian’s POV**   


The last ten days have been endless. The last fucking month has been endless. Thank god I’ve had the Babylon reconstruction and reopening, not to mention two new accounts, to focus on. He kept begging me to come down, and every nerve ending in my body was urging me to get on a plane, but I knew if I kept showing up right from the start, he’d never really establish a life for himself there. He’d just be biding his time between visits. So would I. Not good for either of us. I figured I’d give it about two months, then fly down and surprise him. But when he called to tell me he was coming home, all of my justifications for giving each of us space seemed ridiculous. Thursday became this finish line that I never seemed to get closer to, like the one at the end of the Liberty Ride. Yet, like then, there he was, willing me on, drawing me toward it.

I watch as one by one the people file off of the plane. Christ, Justin! What did you do, sit in the very last fucking row? Finally, he emerges and I curse myself that my heart speeds its beating the minute I see him. Glancing up, he sees me and one of his 1,000 watt smiles lights the entire terminal.

“Follow me,” I demand, grabbing his hand and dragging him down the hall, nearly pulling him over, and into men’s room. Laughing, he says, “Well, hello to you too.”

I shove him, harder in my fervor than I mean to, into a stall. Moving quickly in after him, I pull the door shut, covering his mouth with my own before he knows what hit him. Kissing so hard I’m afraid he’ll show up at Molly’s play looking like he’d been in a bar fight, our tongues wrestle as if we’re starving children fighting over a few grains of rice. Finally, needing to breathe, we break apart and I take the opportunity to grab his shoulders and whirl him around. He yanks his pants down, as eager as I am, as I undo my own. I roll the condom on in what must be record time, and in moments I’m pushing inside, taking no time to prepare him. His hands flank his head flat against the metal wall of the stall, slapping soundly with the sensation but not protesting. I run my own hands down the length of his arms and entwine my fingers with his, and he squeezes them so relentlessly I’m convinced he might break either his or mine. I couldn’t give a shit. Our need for each other is so palpable it’s nearly audible, visible. A third entity in the room. I nibble and suck at his shoulder, his neck as he throws his head back against me. I remove one my hands from his as I reach around to stroke him. He sucks in his breath and a loud moan escapes his lips. We’re so focused that neither of us hears someone walk in the door. Hearing Justin, the man calls out “Are you alright in there?”

Both so close, we respond, unintentionally, by simultaneously groaning deeply.

“Sorry! Oh, uh, excuse..." Quick footsteps are followed by the door banging shut.

Without warning, his muscles contract in a succession of pulses. Feeling his body violently shudder and seeing his hands tighten to fists sends a ripple that starts in my dick and races through me. I come so hard I’m certain my legs won’t hold me. Reaching up, I curl my fingers around the top of the partition and press my head against his back to steady myself, letting the waves of my orgasm gradually subside. I stand briefly immobile, wanting more than anything not to pull out of him. Ever. Finally, I kiss his shoulder blades, slide out and move away so he’s no longer sandwiched in.

Gasping for breath, he turns and cleans himself off, smiling at me. “Hi.”

Catching my breath as well, tucking myself back in, my broad smile matches his. “Welcome home, Sunshine.”

***************************************************************************  
**Justin’s POV**   


My head is still spinning from our little detour into the men’s room. I never thought we’d make it to the car. Walking and kissing at the same time is very tricky. The few moments our lips weren’t on each other, we amused ourselves noticing everyone pretending way too hard that they weren’t staring at us. It just made it hotter. Finally in the ‘vette, Brian asks where he’s taking me.

“Is that really a question?”

“I figured you might need to go to your mom’s.”

“Eventually. First, I told you, I have very specific plans.” I raise my eyebrows and smile.

“Oh, right. I vaguely remember something about that. But it’s fuzzy.”

“Well, they started out something like this…” I reach over and unzip his jeans.

“Ringing a bell, but I still can’t quite recall…”

Pulling his dick out, I lean over and say “Oh, I’ll ring your bell,” as I wrap my lips around the shaft. As I do, I feel the car veer.

“Mmmm.” I hear him growl. Then the car pitches to a stop and I look up. He sees the question in my eyes and says, “I pulled over. You mother will never forgive me if I kill you before she even gets to see you.” Then he places his hand on the back of my head, guiding me back down to his lap.

Walking into the building, riding the elevator, I feel a tug at my heart. It only gets stronger as Brian slides the door open and we enter the loft. Everything else melts away, and I feel like I’m finally home. It’s Brian’s home, I know. But it’s also been mine often enough. And anyway, Brian feels like home to me.

I walk in, head straight to the bedroom and drop my bag. He’s behind me in seconds, wrapping his arms around me, squeezing me and kissing my neck. I lean back against him, holding onto his arms. He buries his face in my hair, inhaling languidly, as if he’s pulling me into him, filling himself with my scent. 

In stark contrast to our almost violent need less than an hour ago, I turn in his arms and he takes my face in his hands with almost unbearable tenderness. I lean in and we kiss gently but deeply, lips still sore from our greeting. His fingers run through my hair and I caress the back of his neck, the side of his face. It’s one of those forever kisses, the kind that curls your toes. A kiss that says everything better than words could hope to. His hands slide beneath my shirt, inching it up until it’s bunched under my armpits. Neither of us willing to separate our mouths long enough for it to pass between us, it just remains there. He sucks my bottom lip, running his tongue along the inside, creating a half sigh half whimper in my throat. At the sound, his arms tighten, pulling me closer and upwards until my feet are barely touching the ground, both literally and figuratively. Finally, the flutter in my chest threatening to stop my heart, I pull back to gulp some air. The path now clear, my shirt finds its way over my head and onto the floor. His hands promptly return to my chest, gliding across the surface, rubbing in just the right places to send my head rolling back, my neck calling out in invitation. He runs his tongue from my clavicle up to my ear, lapping at me like I’m an ice cream cone on a sweltering day.

Undressing each other becomes a prolonged process, both of us concentrating on each new patch of skin as it’s uncovered. We lay down on the bed, our hands, lips, tongues, teeth exploring freely, rediscovering every inch of each other. Ardent, but unhurried. Brian rests on his side and looks down at me. I’m expecting him to lean down to resume our kiss, or perhaps to say something. But he just stares at me like he’s trying to burn the image of my face into his brain, and it turns me to jello. Without breaking eye contact, he reaches over me and grabs a condom. Opening it a la Kinney, he removes it from the package and leans in for another soft but deep kiss I feel from my earlobes to my toenails. He rises up and again looks into my eyes with such intensity that I’m sure he can see right through my skull. “I missed you,” he whispers. I reach up and lightly run my fingers under his chin as he reaches down. To my unqualified shock, I feel him roll the condom on my dick and lay face down on the bed, burying his head in a pillow. I’m momentarily frozen. He’s never, in over five years, initiated this. He’s let me top him on occasion, but only on my request, and usually only after substantial convincing. Seeing him lying there, offering himself to me makes me so hard I think I might come without even touching him. I climb on top of him and nestle myself between his legs, showering him with feather light kisses across his back, making him shiver.

“I love you too,” I whisper in his ear as I slowly prepare him.

**********************************************************************

**Brian’s POV**   


Even though he’d joked about it on the phone, I hadn’t really planned it. When he whispered “I love you too,” I knew he thought this was a concession I was making for him. My way of saying I love you without using the words. Who could blame him? Without words is the way I usually said it. Besides, I guess that’s what it was. Just not in the way he assumes. When I was kissing him, memorizing his face, I was overwhelmed by the feeling that I wanted…fuck it… _needed_ to feel him inside me. It’s new for me, something I don’t think I’ve ever felt before. He’s the only person I’ve let top me in…Christ, I can’t remember how long. Since long before I met him. I know that. And I hadn’t even let him do it in nearly a year, since just after he got back from L.A. That’s, what, at least 1,000 fucks ago?

He’s being so careful, knowing I’m not really used to this, and it’s turning me on beyond description. I reach back and dig my fingers into his ass, pulling him to me, letting him know I’m o.k., I’m ready for him to stop exerting so much self control. He exhales like he’d been holding his breath for hours, grips my shoulder and begins to speed up, pushing himself deeper with each thrust, changing his angle until he hears my sharp intake of breath. Hitting just the right spot, he elicits sounds from me I don’t even recognize. Not my usual grunts, but higher pitched whimpers, cries, huffs. The small corner of my brain that’s still coherent is trying to comprehend my typical reluctance to letting him do this. The jolts it sends through me are unlike anything I experience when I’m fucking him. And it’s fucking amazing.

I hear his breathing change and feel his body tense, his fingers pressing into my hip. He comes into the condom, and the sensation sends me over the edge. As I clamp down on him, his head drops to my back and he bucks fiercely, his ebbing orgasm rejuvenated mid-stream (pun intended).

He collapses onto me, running his hand over my back and sliding it around my waist and up onto my chest. “Holy shit, Brian,” he puffs against my shoulder as he pulls out. 

Both of us spent, we just lay like that, my hand covering his on my chest, his face nuzzled into my neck. “You’re not half bad at that, Sunshine,” I murmur as we drop off to sleep.


	4. 4 - Sweet Torture

**Justin’s POV**

 

Slowly surfacing from the depths of slumber, everything seems right, natural. Familiar bed in a familiar room, familiar warm body beside me. A sense of contentment lodged deep in my soul. I roll over and press my lips against his rib cage, outlining each ridge, and nestle into him, my hand idly caressing his chest as he unconsciously covers it with his own, my leg strewn across his. But something else familiar presses down on me as I lift further out of sleep. The familiar wrench of my heart as I remember leaving, days and weeks without him, the sinking knowledge that in two days I’ll be leaving yet again, the familiar horrible impossibility of it all hovering in the air. 

 

What the fuck am I doing to myself? To him? Brian can never be with me in the ways I want and still be Brian. Isn’t that why I left? Why I left the man who, after five years of fiercely battling my relentless efforts had finally said all the things I ached to hear and more, was finally willing to give me everything I asked at his own expense? I shouldn’t have come home. Shouldn’t be feeling his warm, smooth skin against my lips. Shouldn’t be inhaling his scent. I shake my head to dislodge the relentless storm of “shouldn’t”s pummeling my thoughts.

 

“What’s wrong?” he croaks in a sleep clogged voice.

 

“Nothing,” I lie as my lips again press against him, my arms tightening around him. “I just wish we could stay right here.” Forever, I think, but I say, “You know, until I have to go back.”

 

“Why can’t we?” he asks still half asleep, pulling me close.

 

“Because my mom flew me back to see Molly’s play. I can’t ditch it.”

 

“What if I refund the airfare?”

 

I smile, but shake my head. “How can I come home and not see them? Or Deb? My mom and Molly would be upset, but Debbie might actually do me bodily harm. Or you.”

 

“I’m sure it would be me. Everything’s always my fault. Her little Sunshine can do no wrong.”

 

“Besides, it’s Friday. Don’t you have to go into the office?”

 

“Nah. I’ve got the boss wrapped around my finger.”

 

“Don’t you mean you’ve got your fingers wrapped around the boss?”

 

He snorts,. “When necessary. But at the moment the boss has people for that,” placing my hand on his wakening cock.

 

I comply, my fist slowly pumping, careful to avoid the head as my mouth leisurely meanders toward it. Cupping his balls in my other hand, I roll them lazily while his breathing intensifies. His hand finds my shoulder, kneading a bit before applying upwards pressure, signaling for me to meet him at the pillow. I know this routine. He’s ready to kiss me and roll me over, but I have other ideas. I resist his pull and instead drag my lips along his inner thigh. He shifts his hips, trying to maneuver so that my mouth will take him in. Committed to the delicious torture, I lift my head and find his other thigh, repeating the kissing, the gradual ascent, but stopping before I give him what he’s craving. His hand leaps from my shoulder to my hair, clutching it tightly, precipitating my groan. Not from the tug, but rather from the knowledge that I’ve got him now. I’m plotting the course, and he’s powerless to do anything but follow my lead in my aspiration to transport him to the places he alone takes me, where I can hear the blood rushing through my veins at warp speed, where breathing is a luxury far beyond my means, where even if we somehow merged into one being I would still yearn to feel him closer, deeper. 

 

My fist never altering its sluggish pace, my other hand abandons his scrotum and slithers upwards, my thumb circling his navel, dipping in, causing his stomach to sink from contracting muscles. Spreading my fingers, my hand sashays up his chest until it reaches a hardening bud which I pinch and roll. At the same time, I turn my head, dislodging his hand from its perch in my hair, taking his index finger in my mouth, my cheeks hollow as I draw it in, running my tongue in the valley between it and its neighbors, bobbing as if it were another appendage, the one I feel twitch in response. He curls forward in a crunch before flopping back down, panting heavily.

 

Satisfied that I’ve inflicted sufficient sweet torture, I finally let the tip of my tongue find what he’s been urging, nearly imperceptibly grazing the sensitive spot just below the swollen head, extracting a fiery gasp. My mouth then envelopes it as my fist at last increases its pace, aided by the abundance of moisture he’s leaked. His back arches so tightly that his full weight rests solely on the top of his head. His hands frantically clasp the bed, his knuckles white, the sheets bunching and twisting in his grip. My head rotates as I suck and lick hungrily, humming against him, my fist accelerating its motion. Going in for the kill, I swipe my tongue across his slit, digging in slightly on its second pass. Obediently, he shoots. And shoots. And shoots. Thrusting in time to the forceful expulsions of air from his lungs, every muscle visibly straining.

 

Dropping back down, his eyes glued shut, breath still labored, he reaches out and draws me in for an ardor laden kiss, his body still trembling from the strength of his release. He begins to speak, but stops, too depleted to extend the effort. I lay back next to him, and he catches my hand, pulling it to him, hugging my arm with both of his. I hear the crunch of his hair on the pillow and turn my head to look at him, finding he’s done the same. Twin grins grow easily on us, and we lounge comfortably, both exactly where we want to be.

 

************************

**Brian’s POV**   

I know I should fuck him, or suck him, or somehow reciprocate. But my bones feel as flaccid as my cock has become. I want to tell him how fucking hot that was, how I think I lost consciousness for a fraction of a second. Not happening. Can’t find my voice, and my brains are too scrambled to put words together properly even if I could. Nobody else has ever done that to me, but with him it’s routine. Usually I’m so composed during sex that I could conduct a business meeting while my dick is in some guy’s ass or some trick is sucking me off. How many times had I held perfectly articualte conversations with him, Michael, others while in the midst of the act? But since the beginning this has been different. There are times the feel of him makes me lose all thought, all reason. Things he does that cause wild colors to flash behind my eyes and all I can focus on is the exquisite pleasure. 

 

My arms embrace one of his, holding it to my chest, and I bend my head to gently kiss his hand, hoping it will tell him what I can’t quite get out. Then I turn to look at him. I love looking at him after he’s blown me. He knows he’s gifted, and he always basks in a sort of self-satisfied glow. It’s fucking sexy as hell. It’s a pity he can’t give himself head, because the lad is a genius. I’m good. Legend, in fact. But shit, he is a true artist. It’s a shame he can’t reap the benefits himself.

 

After a brief respite, he gets up to retrieve a bottle of water from the fridge. Some things never change. Why do I find so much comfort in that? Returning, he announces, “I’m going to jump in the shower. I’m meeting my mom at the diner for lunch. Why don’t you come?”

 

“I just did.”

 

“To lunch. Come to lunch.” He laughs, and it seems he’s also finding comfort in the things that don’t change.

 

“I guess I’d better join you in the shower then.”

 

“That’s a brilliant idea regardless of whether you’re coming to lunch or not.”

 

“Well then, get your ass in there…so I can get in your ass.”

 

Our fingers (and other things) were pruned by the time we abandoned the water. True to form, we fucked so long we were late.

 

Not two steps inside the diner, Debbie descends like a vulture, squealing, “SUNSHINE!” and squashing him within an inch of his life.

 

“Christ, Debbie. The kid’s only been gone a month. He was in Hollywood more than twice that long.”

 

“But that was temporary. I knew he was coming home. This time our little ray of sunshine left to light up another city, for good!”

 

“Do you think I could get a fucking cup of coffee, TODAY maybe?” I snap, scowling. Justin appears both guilty and concerned at once and grabs my hand, rubs my arm. I pull it away.

 

“For a top, you’ve sure got a big pole up your butt!” she snipes back, stomping off in a huff.

 

“Brian…” Justin starts, his voice hinting at worry.

 

“Hi, sweetheart! Hello, Brian.” Jennifer chirps, waving us over to the table, kissing him on the cheek and mercifully saving me from the unwelcome conversation he was about to drag me into.

 

“Hi, mom. Tucker.”

 

“Hello Mother Taylor. Tucker.” 

 

“I’m so glad you took me up on my offer to fly you home, honey. I know you’re being careful with your money until things take off for you. I thought you could use this.” She slides an envelope across the Formica.

 

“I’m not taking any money from you, Mom. I’m a grown man. I can support myself. Yes, New York is expensive, but I’m getting by just fine. I just picked up a few shifts at Nelly’s, Christopher Street’s answer to The Liberty Diner. That should supplement the money from the comic and what I have left over from the movie.”

 

“With your experience, I’m sure you could get a more lucrative job. Did you try any corporate art departments?” 

 

“Oh, right. A PIFA dropout with a glowing recommendation from my internship explaining how I fucked one of the partners and used firm equipment to produce supposedly subversive materials? Sure, they’re all chomping at the bit to hire me. Bedsides, working a 9 to 5 job is counterproductive to my goals. I need a completely flexible schedule. If I wanted a corporate job, I could have stayed here and worked at Kinnetik. The entire purpose of my going to New York was to explore my possibilities as an artist.”

 

“Are you having fun with your friends?”

 

“I don’t really have many. But Jessica and her boyfriend, Tony, are great. I hang out with them. And I’ve gone to the clubs some. I’ve been really busy though, finding a work space and taking my stuff around to galleries.”

 

“But you were such the social butterfly in L.A.” I taunt.

 

“That’s because Brett took me around, introduced me to people. In New York I’m on my own.” He sounds a little sad, lost. “It’ll be fine. I’m sure I’ll meet some people working at Nelly’s.”

 

Jennifer shifts in her seat. “Justin, I didn’t really fly you home to see Molly’s play, although I’m sure she’ll be thrilled if you come. I wanted to talk to you in person about something important.” She eyes Tucker nervously. “Honey, Tucker’s moving in with us. With me and Molly.”

 

You know the expression “looking like a deer caught in headlights?” I don’t think I ever saw a more perfect illustration of it than Justin at this precise moment.

 

“Honey?”

 

“That’s great. Congratulations, both of you,” he says. But he sounds like he just ate a bug.

 

“Thank you.” Jennifer and Tucker say in tandem.

 

The rest of the meal is eaten in masked discomfort. I don’t even wait for the check, dropping what I know is more than enough to cover it on the table when we’ve finished and ushering Justin out with a quick farewell to his mother and her beau.

  

*************************

**Justin’s POV**   

“I’m o.k.” I tell him in a voice that conveys “in case you give a shit” as we ride back to the loft.

 

“Why the fuck wouldn’t you be?”

 

“Maybe because my mother wants to shack up with her boy toy.” 

 

“Good for her! I shacked up with mine. It’s very convenient to have your favorite fuck available any time night or day.”

 

My mood instantly flips. “So you’re saying I’m your favorite fuck?”

 

His face remains firmly forward, baring of those forced smiles that divulges he accidentally revealed more than he intended. With a sigh of surrender he admits, “I wouldn’t have offered to ‘forsake all others’ for you if you weren’t.”

 

“That works out well.” I caress his cheek with the backs of my fingers. “You happen to be mine.”

 

Trying to regain the upper hand, he throws out dismissively, “Well of course I am. I’m everybody’s.”

 

After a marathon fuck session covering every corner of the loft, we lay on the big black pillow sharing a joint.

 

“I guess I should be grateful she’s not marrying the guy. Although that might be next. This was pretty fucking quick.” 

 

“Whatever, if it makes them happy. It’s their lives. And anyway, I thought you’d gotten past your little hypocritical queen out about this. You told her she could bring him to the wedding.”

 

“As her date. It doesn’t mean I want a guy who’s closer to my age than Molly is to be my step-father.” Itching to change the subject, I face him. “We should talk about what Debbie said.”

 

“Don’t you need to get ready for Molly’s play?”

 

“Brian…”

 

“You don’t want to disappoint the little tyke, now do you, Sunshine?”

 

Clearly this conversation isn’t going to happen. “Do you want to come with me?”

 

“Yeah. It’s at the top of my To Do list, right after rolling naked in broken glass and eating pussy.”

 

I chuckle. The man has quite a way with words. “I take it that’s a no.”

 

“The one Taylor school function is all I’ll ever need.” 

 

I kiss him sweetly, aiming to erase the pained look in his eyes. “Why don’t I meet you at Babylon afterwards. I haven’t been there since you reopened it. We haven’t even fucked in the new back room yet.”

 

“I don’t do the back room anymore.”

 

“WHAT?” Is he saying…

 

“I prefer the VIP Lounge. It’s even more exclusive than before.”

 

Ah. O.k. “Your own private den of iniquity, huh. Why don’t I meet you there?”

 

“Sorry, but without an invitation...” He shrugs and gives me a crocked smile.

 

“I suppose I’ll have to find a way to entertain myself with the commoners in the back room then.”

 

“I’ll see what I can do.”

 

“You do that.” I smirk as pull on my clothes and head out the door.

  

*************************

**Brian’s POV**   

Justin was duly impressed with my VIP Lounge. Bordello chic, he called it. I thought about closing it down to anyone else for the evening, but then remembered how much fun it is to fuck him with an audience. So instead I had the biggest crowd in there so far. I almost needed a mop for all the drool the crowd produced. Eat your hearts out, boys (or better yet, my ass). 

 

Yesterday we never even put clothes on, much to the chagrin of the Thai delivery guy. We even pulled out some of the old toys. Guaranteed, we broke some sort of world record for number of fucks in a 24 hour period. We even surpassed the time he had me take some of Theodore’s Viagra. I undoubtedly belong in some medical journal, an enviable freak of nature.

 

Now I’m just trying to ignore the alarm, every beep a nasty harbinger reminding me that he’s walking out that door again, who knows for how long. He groans and stands, stretching. My foul mood is lifted momentarily watching him walk into the bathroom, markedly bowlegged.

 

The rushing water of the shower lures me. Stepping in behind him, I enclose him in my arms and kiss his neck. “What time’s your flight?”

 

“One.”

 

“So we have about an hour. Whatever shall we do?” I ask, soaping his back, my hand gliding downwards.

 

He grabs my arm, halting its progression. “Something that doesn’t involve your dick in my ass. I’m afraid any more abuse will cause permanent damage.”

 

Just touching him, both of us slippery and wet, I’m rock hard. My lips against his ear, my breath hot, I growl “What about something that involves yours in mine?”

 

He whirls and looks at me like I just told him I’m entering the priesthood. “Are you serious?”

 

“Do I joke about things like that?”

 

“Twice in one week? Why, Mr. Kinney, I’m flattered!”

 

“You should be.” I mumble, taking his face in my hands, bring my mouth to his, my tongue demanding entry. His lips part, sucking it in eagerly, scraping his teeth against it, causing something in my stomach to do back flips. The kiss becomes frenzied as we stumble out of the shower and back to the bed. Given the more than half a foot difference in our height, the fucking me standing in the shower concept was all but a physical impossibility.

 

He’s less cautious this time, slamming into me until his balls smack against my hole in a dire effort to get us both off quickly. Each thrust is unmistakably painful for him, the inflamed skin of his ass decidedly raw. The weight of him on my back, his tense bites to my shoulder, his grunts of pleasure mixed with pain all conspire to bring me to fulfill my half of his goal. Sympathetically, I stop him.

 

“No!” he cries. “I’m so…”

 

“Shhh,” interrupting his distress with a kiss. Sliding out from underneath him, I remove the condom and roll him onto his back so I can finish him off with my mouth, giving much needed relief to his poor overused posterior. Nothing fancy. Goal oriented is what’s called for right now.

 

“Thanks,” he offers afterwards, his hands over his face. “Not exactly one of our top ten.”

 

“After the past three days, I’d say we were due for one that didn’t rattle the chandeliers.”

 

“How the fuck am I going to sit on a plane for an hour?” He looks at me, uneasy.

 

I lean over and kiss him gently. “Carefully.”

 

Getting up, I go into the bathroom. Or should I say disaster area. “Christ, could you pick up a fucking towel once in a while? And there’s toothpaste all over the damned counter. You can’t tell me you couldn’t find anything to wipe it off with. There are at least two towels at your feet wherever you stand.”

 

Approaching the doorway, he commands, “Don’t.”

 

“Don’t what?” I bark nastily.

 

“Don’t pick a fight because you think it will be easier if you’re pissed at me when I leave.”

 

I start to contradict him, but can’t. He knows me too well. Instead I reach out and pull him to me in a crushing embrace. 


	5. 5 - Showing Off

**Justin’s POV**  

 

When I get back to the city, I enter the apartment to find a message:

 

Jus –

Call Bernard at 212-555-4877. He sounds hot!

– Jess

 

Dialing, I’m searching my brain for a hint. Who the fuck is Bernard? Or more aptly, did I fuck Bernard? When the phone is answered, “Fabre Gallery. May I help you?” my stomach knots. This isn’t a trick (either meaning, I hope!).

 

“This is Justin Taylor. I received a message to call you.”

 

“Yes! Mr. Taylor, we were very impressed with your work.”

 

“Thank you. I was hoping that you might be interested in carrying some of my pieces.”

 

“That’s something we can discuss. But it’s not why I called.” Heart, meet floor. “Are you familiar with the annual Fabre’s Five Finds Gala?”

 

“Of course. What artist isn’t? You actually featured one of my professors at PIFA a few years ago.”

 

“Terri! Yes, she was one of my favorites. And I’m sure she’s a wonderful instructor. Such magnificent technique. Now you’ll have something in common. My call was to invite you to be one of our five artists this year.”

 

I resist my overwhelming “Huh?” impulse. Come on Taylor...keep a professional demeanor, even if you are shaking from head to toe. “I would be honored. Thank you.”

 

“Wonderful! I’ll need you to bring all of your work down so that we can confer about which pieces to feature. Does Wednesday work for you?”

 

Gee, let me check my schedule. When is my lunch with the queen? Trying in vain to sound like I have to think about it, I answer, two…three…four…“It looks like I’m available. So I’ll see you then.”

 

“I look forward to it, Mr. Taylor. Goodbye.”

 

Holy shit! Fabre’s is a very highly respected gallery, and this event is well known and well attended, launching several successful careers. For somebody who claimed this all meant nothing, I’m certainly excited and nauseated enough, both at the same time.

 

My first call is Lindsay. Her shrieks nearly produce trickles of blood from my ear. She babbles excitedly, alleging that she’s not at all surprised, that ever since I arrived in town she’s heard a lot of buzz (even up in Toronto) that the kid from Caswell’s _Art Forum_ article had hit the city. She teases, “See. Cunts have their uses, even for fags.”

 

As I hang up, the phone rings in my hand. “Are you psychic now?” I ask, answering it.

 

“Excuse me? Did you just call me psycho?”

 

“No. I asked if you were psyCHIC.”

 

“Ah. Because I do a fabulous shower scene.”

 

“I should know. I’m generally your co-star. Me or your middle school gym teacher.”

 

“You love it as much as he did.”

 

“More. I was about to call you. Remember that gallery I told you about, the one with the prominent show introducing up and coming artists? Well, I went there to see if they would carry some of my work, and instead they invited me to be one of the featured artists!”

 

“So, looks like that critic wasn’t just admiring your ass after all. It didn’t take you long to conquer New York.”

 

“One show. With four other artists. It’s a start, but I’ve hardly conquered anything.”

 

“You will. When is it?”

 

“The last Friday of the month.”

 

“Fuck!”

 

“What?”

 

“I have a convention that I can’t get out of.”

 

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll probably be busy trying to charm more cunts in order to further my career,” the cynical remark made primarily to hide my disappointment.

 

“Hmmm. A room full of cunts. So sorry I’ll miss that.”

 

“Sure you are.”

 

“Congratulations, Sunshine.”

 

“Thanks. Later.”

 

“Later.”

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

The morning of the show, I enter the gallery to find the other four artists already there. One of them, a truly stunning dark skinned, dark haired guy in a tight black shirt approaches me and puts his hand out. “And then there were five.”

 

“That reference is actually meant to be a countdown. Not a…count up.”

 

He laughs good naturedly, revealing a dazzling smile. Wow! If I’m Sunshine, this guy is Moonlight. “Hi, I’m Alex Rodriguez.” He nods to the others. “This is Kurt Sigler, Anna Wilson, and Stacey Cardone.”

 

I shake his hand, and then go down the line and do the same with the rest. “Justin Taylor.” 

 

“Bernard said to let him know when we’re all here. Why don’t you come with me to get him.”

 

Once we’re out of earshot he gossips, “I’ll warn you, Kurt and Anna are insufferable snobs. And Stacey is…well, she’s just strange. I’m so relieved to have somebody normal to talk to.”

 

“You’ve known me exactly two and half minutes. How do you know I’m normal?”

 

“I just get a vibe.”

 

“A _vibe_?”

 

“Oh. No. I’m not one of those freaky artist types, I swear. I just mean I get a sense of people pretty quickly. And my first impressions are usually dead on. So, you’re a native New Yorker?”

 

“So much for your astounding intuition. I’m from Pittsburgh. I’ve only been here about two months.”

 

He stops dead in his tracks. “And you’re in a show already? A show this prestigious? Shit! I’ve been pounding the canvasses and the pavement for a little over two _years_. It took me one just to get somebody to glance at my work before they rejected me. You’re going to be easy to hate, aren’t you?” Smiling to complement his joking tone, he continued. “Pittsburgh, huh? I guess my radar is a little off.” He hesitates for a second, and then asks “Is my gaydar?”

 

I laugh. “No. That seems to be on target.”

 

He winks as we enter the gallery manager’s office.

  

******************** 

 

**Brian’s POV**   

 

We emerge from the cab, faced immediately with a huge banner. Seeing Justin’s name ten feet high outside the Fabre Gallery confirms I’d been right convincing him he needed to do this. The show has already started, and the place is pretty packed. But his little blonde head is like a beacon to me and I spot him easily, standing with his back to me, staring at some paintings I’m sure aren’t his. Next to him is a smoking hot Latin guy, the two engrossed in some serious conversation or other I can’t hear. 

 

I motion to my companions to wait and I sneak up behind him, mumbling into his ear, “Those paintings are crap. This asshole couldn’t hold Taylor’s jock.” 

 

“Brian!” He whips around and practically leaps into my arms, kissing me emphatically. “I can’t believe you’re here! Why didn’t you tell me? What about your convention?”

 

“It generally kills a surprise when you announce it ahead of time, so I neglected to mention the convention’s at Javits.”

 

He gives me one of those Sunshine smiles I’d fly the 400 miles for any day (for fuck’s sake, did I really just think that?). “I can’t believe you’re here.”

 

“You already said that. I thought you got 14 million and twelve on your SATs. How about delving into that extensive vocabulary,” I tease, kissing him again. “Did you really think I would miss your first New York show?”

 

Then he turns to the stud he’d been talking to. “Oh, Alex, this is Brian. Brian, Alex. He’s one of the other artists in the show.” 

 

“Nice to meet you.” He extends his hand, which I reach out and shake.

 

“Likewise. Will you excuse us?” My arm swings around Justin’s shoulder, pulling him away.

 

“Where’s the back room in this place?” I mutter.

 

“Later,” he laughs. “Want to see my stuff?”

 

“Do you think I flew all the way here just for the sex?”

 

“Yes. But I can’t leave yet.” We stroll toward his section.

 

As we walk, I nod my head toward Alex. “He’s hot.”

 

“Tell me about it.”

 

“Is he good?”

 

“He’s amazing!” 

 

What amounts to a bowling ball slams me in the gut. What’s that about? I don’t do jealousy (well, except for that first time at Babylon, and the King of Babylon contest, and the whole Rage incident with Michael…o.k., not the point). Hell, I’ve even watched him fuck other guys. Dozens of them. I think it’s his enthusiasm that gets me. That must be it. 

 

“His stuff is so different from mine though.”

 

I shake my head at my own relief. “Not what I meant.”

 

“Oh!” He rolls his eyes. “I should have known. Can’t tell you. Just met him an hour ago.”

 

“And…”

 

“And we had to prepare for the show. I realize you can’t imagine this, but there are actually people who aren’t cruising someone every moment of every day.”

 

“Right. Ugly people. What would be the point?”

 

We approach a wall with JUSTIN TAYLOR spanning the top in large gold letters. I examine all of his paintings, painfully aware that he’s watching me. Luckily, as usual, I don’t have to worry about what to say to him.

 

“They’re breathtaking,” I marvel. His eyes sparkle, his entire face lighting up, and I’m reminded again why Debbie dubbed him Sunshine.

 

“Really?”

 

“Have you ever known me complement somebody to spare their feelings?”  
  


“Good point. Thanks.”

 

“Oh, I almost forgot. I brought you a few things.”

 

“You did? What?”

 

“Turn around and see.”

 

He spins and exclaims, “Mom! Linds!” as they appear before him. Hugs, kisses, and happy chatter abound as they gush over him like a cracked fire hydrant. 

 

I catch a man I’m guessing is the gallery manager subtly trying to catch Justin’s eye. “You’re in demand. Go be fabulous. Don’t worry about us, we’re not going anywhere.”

 

With a peck on the lips to each of us, he scampers away to charm the pants off of the media and imperious patrons of the arts (not literally – that’s for me, tonight). We wander around the show, perusing all of the work, determining that Justin’s is far superior to the other four. I’m not doing the proud boyfriend…partner…ex-…whatever thing either. He really is remarkably talented. And it doesn’t escape any of us that he’s mobbed by admirers for the entire event.

 

As the crowd dwindles, all of the artists are summoned to the office. Justin emerges worn out, but contented. “Where’s my mom, and Linds?”

 

“They went back to the hotel. We’ll meet up with them for a late dinner. So how’d it go?”

 

“All six of my pieces sold. Bernard’s thrilled. And more importantly, I don’t have to revisit wiggling my ass for my supper.” 

 

“Not so fast. I expect you to wiggle it considerably for your supper tonight.” My arms trap him as I give it a squeeze. “Congratulations. How about I make that seven pieces?”

 

“Huh?”

 

“I want a piece.” I bite at his ear playfully. “I need something for my office.”

 

“Brian, you’re not buying anything from me. If you want something for your office, I’ll show you what I have back at the studio. Or I’ll paint you something new.”

 

“Have I taught you nothing? Don’t ever give your work away. Always demand to get paid for your expertise.”

 

“Uh huh. Then what do I owe you for the professional advice you gave me about the Gay/Straight Student Alliance back in high school?”

 

He had me there. “O.k.,” I resign. “You can paint me something, smartass.” I slap his perfect little derrière. “Can we get out of here yet?”

 

“I thought you’d never ask.” Penetrating the heavy summer air outside, I raise my arm to hail a cab. Pulling it back down, he explains, “My place is in walking distance from here.”

 

“Good to know. Where we’re going isn’t.”

 

“Where are we going?”

 

“Well, I’m sure as hell not fucking you on a futon in the living room of some girl’s shit hole apartment.”

 

“Understood. So where should we go?”

 

“You’ll see,” I remark, maintaining an air of mystery.

 

Once there, it takes a moment, but then gradually dawns on him. “This is the hotel I came to when you chased me here!”

 

“I hardly chased you. Everyone threatened a part of my anatomy I’m quite fond of if I didn’t retrieve you.”

 

He elbows me. “Whatever. This is the same place.”

  
I nod, and add as we step off of the elevator, inserting the card key, “And this is the same room.” 

 

********************

 

**Justin’s POV**    

 

Hovering inside the doorway, I’m wholly incredulous. “I cannot believe you did something this romantic.”

 

“Why not? This was the site of one of our greatest fucks. I thought we could re-enact it.”

 

I laugh. “There you go. That sounds more like the Brian Kinney I know. Wait right there.” I duck into the bathroom, reappearing in one of their white terry robes. That hungry look settles in his eyes and he tugs at the belt, the robe falling open as I shrug out if it, letting it slide to the floor. “You need help?” I ask, approaching him and unbuttoning his shirt, recreating the memory. He smiles, shoves me back onto the bed, and we attack each other with a ferocity matching our last encounter in the identical spot.

 

He’s arranged for a celebration dinner at Le Bernardin. My mother and Lindsay are waiting when we arrive, and my mother holds up a hand, “Don’t even tell me why you were late. There are things a mother doesn’t need to hear about.”

 

I share the news that all of my pieces sold, and that Bernard wants to talk to me about the possibility of a solo show. “Justin, that’s incredible!” squeals Lindsay. “But make sure you don’t get locked into an exclusive deal with him. He’ll probably push for it, but with what I overheard today you’re going to have a lot of options. In fact, you really need to find somebody who knows what they’re doing to represent you.”

 

“A couple of people actually mentioned representing me at the show. Here.” I place three business cards in front of her.

 

She flips through them. “Annie Axel. She has a reputation for taking care of herself before her clients. Steer clear. Elliot Zucker. Never heard of him. I can ask around for you. And…oh my god!”

 

“What?” the rest of us all ask at once.

 

“Gregory Reynolds! He’s HUGE!”

 

“And you didn’t introduce me?” Brian asks, his tongue stuffed in his cheek.

 

Lindsay grins at him like a parent indulging an unruly child. “He represents some of the best contemporary artists around. He wants to represent you?”

 

“He just said he was interested in talking to me.”

 

“Call him. As soon as possible!” she urges. 

 

The waiter pours the champagne Brian ordered, and my mother proposes a toast. “To Justin.” What the hell. I’ll drink to that.

 

Under the table, Brian’s hand locates my thigh, rubbing slightly, giving me a quick squeeze. Not in a sexual sense (for once), but simply in acknowledgement. Grateful to be able to share this milestone with the three people most responsible for my reaching it, I turn toward him and subtly mouth, “Thank you.” 


	6. 6 - Personal Shopper

**Brian’s POV**

While Nelly’s doesn’t look anything like The Liberty Diner, there’s an unmistakably similar aura to the place, and I discover I’m instantly comfortable. The four of us slide into a booth as several people greet Justin, who makes the appropriate introductions.

“So do you two have any G-rated plans for the day, or are you just going to barricade yourselves in the hotel room until Brian’s flight tomorrow night?” Lindsay jokes. Jennifer pretends not to hear, carefully inspecting the surface of the table.

“Are you serious?” Justin asks, incredulous. “Do you really think Brian would be in New York and not shop? They’d revoke his label queen card.” I give him a little shove. “And I want to check out Art Rock.”

“Everybody get to splatter paint on a boulder in Central Park?” I mock.

“No,” he says with a small laugh, poking me lightheartedly in the gut. “It’s a contemporary art show up at Rockefeller Plaza. Don’t worry. It’s right near all of your favorite houses of worship – Gucci, Prada, Boss.”

“Excellent. I’m feeling particularly religious today. And never fear, we’ll have plenty of time to get X-rated. I have that convention, so I’m here until Wednesday.”

“So, um, Mom, how’s Tucker?” Justin asks, a bit begrudgingly. Good boy. I look across at Jennifer and smile with pride. I know he catches it out of the corner of his eye.

She’s dumbstruck. “He’s wonderful. Thank you for asking, honey. He and Molly are getting along beautifully too. It’s working out very well for all of us.”

“I’m glad.” Wow, he almost sounds like he means it. “Oh, Linds. I called Gregory Reynolds before we left the hotel this morning. I have a lunch meeting with him on Thursday.”

“Justin, that’s fantastic! Give me a call before you agree to any terms. I can let you know what’s customary and what I think is negotiable.”

“Thanks. I will. Oh, there’s Jared. He works here with me, and he’s also living on a friend’s sofa. We talked about rooming together once I could afford it. After the show yesterday, I think I can start looking around. Let me go tell him.”

“Well, he seems to have everything under control, doesn’t he?” Jennifer puffs proudly as he runs off.

“I never doubted it.” I assert. But there’s this odd twist in the pit of my stomach. This is what I wanted, isn’t it? Yes, of course it is. For him, anyway. It’s just that the more successful he is here, both personally and professionally, the more he’ll grow apart from me. Forget it, I tell myself. As long as he’s happy. This is how it should be. Repeat, Kinney. This is how it should be.

 

*************************

**Justin’s POV**

After sending my mom and Lindsay off, we bicker briefly over whose activity comes first, but I win fairly easily. After all, it would be a major pain in the ass hauling all of our purchases around Art Rock. Of course my real motivation was making it to the show at all, which would never happen if we hit the stores first. I’m not stupid. It’s not my first day in Kinneyland.

As we explore Art Rock, Brian comments on one piece. “This one is interesting. Reminds me of that head case Stacey’s work from your show, but better. Of course your stuff surpasses them both.”

“It’s art, Brian. Not a competition.”

He throws me that aren’t-you-cute-and-oh-so-naïve look. “Everything’s a competition.”

I chuckle. “I think that sums up our fundamentally divergent philosophies of life right there.”

He joins me in my laughter, then leans in for an affectionate kiss. When his lips leave mine, though, he doesn’t move his face away. Resting his head against me, he closes his eyes and smiles, his authentic contented smile that I adore. Then his lips again find mine, the kiss a bit more insistent. My hand slips to the back of his neck, and I find myself pulling him in. Our tongues dance together until he slides his deeper into my mouth, affection morphing into passion. With one hand at the small of my back, he draws me close enough to feel his dick begin to press at my belly. His other hand cups the side of my face, strong fingers urging me toward him. I throw my arms atop his shoulders, bending at the elbows, my hands burrowing into his hair, my forearms propelling him closer, closer. The crowd around us forgotten, the world drops away and all that’s left is us, our heat, our desire, our wildly thudding hearts.

Until, that is, the catcalls and applause and one heckler tossing out, “Get a room!” sneak into our collective consciousness, bringing us zooming back to earth. We break the kiss, but stand locked in a tight embrace, grinning woozily. I bury my head against him, so breathless I’d surely collapse if he wasn’t holding me up.

His voice low and airy in my ear, I hear, “Mmmm. I need to get you someplace where we can finish that.”

With his arm around my shoulder, mine hooked around his waist, we finally initiate motion. I expect him to flag down a cab so we can book it back to the room, but instead I feel him steer me down the street and into Saks Fifth Avenue. He’s walking with a purpose, knowing exactly where he wants to go. Suddenly he stops short, reaches to the right and pulls a light blue Armani cashmere sweater off of the rack before continuing to his intended destination. Once in a fitting room, he crushes my lips against his own and re-weakens my knees in approximately 4 seconds flat. Releasing me for a moment, his voice full of gravel, he hands me the sweater insisting, “Put this on.”

“Huh?”

He just shoves it at me, so I take it and start to try it on. He shakes his head and removes my t-shirt, then nods. I pull the sweater on as he unburdens himself of his own shirt. His arms slip around my waist, the soft, thin layer of cashmere pressed between our heaving chests. His hands travel all over my torso, caressing the fabric, and me through it, the sensation remarkably erotic against my skin. He sucks the tender flesh at the base of my neck, and I exhale forcefully, my head rolling back, my eyes squeezing shut, my fingers playing in his hair. When one of his hands slips inside the waistband of my pants and over my ass, his index finger dragging lightly along my crack, I feel more than hear a high pitched whine roll from of the back of my throat.

He drops to his knees, quickly undoing my pants and slipping them, together with my underwear, over my hips, pooling around my ankles. I’m already nearly fully erect, and he completes the transformation easily with his fist before getting his mouth into the act. Once he does, he takes long, slow strokes, almost coming off of me entirely before rocking forward again. Mindful of where we are, I fight to contain the riotous moans that threaten to surge from my lips, achieving only limited success. I bend virtually in half, my head nearly resting on his, which is now operating with increased speed. The intense suction igniting fireworks deep in my chest, I’m teetering on the edge, my breath reduced to a series of rapid huffs, my hands gripping at his ears as if they’re handles, barely able to maintain my balance. Wobbling, my balls tighten as I’m about to…

Just then, he pulls his mouth away and rubs his face against the sweater, nuzzling my belly. I hug his head to me, hyperventilating, knowing he’s waiting for the wave to subside so he can initiate a larger one. Oh, shit.

“Not here.”

His eyes track upwards, see mine, anxious and pleading, and he takes mercy on me. Enveloping my expectant dick with his warm, wet mouth once more, he runs his tongue, tip rigid, along the underside, finishing with a swirl around the crown that sets my head swimming. Arms snake across my abdomen as he again runs his hands along the luxurious cashmere, his thumbs circling just above my nipples, teasing blissfully. His left thumb crooks, his fingernail scraping the alert nub and I jump, sucking in air. It’s like a spark that lights the fuse of an explosive, the anticipation of the impeding detonation only strengthening it. I hold my breath while my stomach, then my calves, individually, systematically every muscle tenses, quivers, waits. His undulating fingers fondle my sac, one reaching to inflict short gentle strokes on the sensitive flesh just behind it, and the spark reaches the end of the fuse. The blast rips through me as I imagine hoards of shoppers just outside. I bite down on my lip, claw his back, straining hopelessly to stifle my burgeoning cry because god…oh god…it’s that single fingertip relentlessly caressing the spot just behind…ahhhhhhhhhhhhh! I let go, coming hard. Really hard. Fuck, it feels like hours. The force of it seemingly taking Brian by surprise, struggling slightly but audibly with my ample load (that’s got to be a first).

Only when I’ve regained my senses do I realize the coppery flavor in my mouth is blood, my teeth having made a victim of my lower lip. Brian slides along my body as he rises, moaning faintly as he continues to enjoy the feeling of the cashmere on his flesh. He kisses me, and the taste of me in his mouth mixes with the very different taste of me in my own. He tenderly licks the wound, rubbing my cheek with his thumb. “You o.k.?”

I just nod, working on slowing my breath.

“Still hate shopping?” he goads, cocking one eyebrow.

“I’m starting to understand the appeal.”

I pull up my pants, Brian slips into his shirt. As I grasp the hem of the sweater, he grabs my wrists, stepping forward, pressing himself against my back.

“You can just wear this home.”

“Are you crazy? It’s 90 degrees out. Besides, who says I’m getting it?”

“I do. Christ, don’t you have any idea how fucking hot you look in it?” He twists me, presenting me to myself in the mirror. O.k. I have to admit it does look amazing. The color makes my eyes pop, and it’s just tight enough to accentuate my body. Not to mention it feels like heaven.

All right. I check the price tag. Think not. “Sorry, but there’s no way I’m spending $300 on a sweater. I’ll have to look hot in my t-shirts and Gap sweaters.”

“It’s on me.”

“Absolutely not.”

“It’s a gift.”

“You don’t do gifts.”

“That’s not true. You know I celebrate accomplishments. Yesterday was one hell of an accomplishment.”

“And dinner was one hell of a celebration. So was flying in my mom and Lindsay and putting them up. I’m not accepting a gift from you too.”

“Who said the gift was for you?” I look at him quizzically. “I can’t keep my hands off of you in that thing, which will lead to plenty of enjoyable interludes for me. You owe it to me to get it. Don’t be so fucking selfish.” His hands free my wrists, but instead pinch at my sides, tickling. I squirm and we wrestle, giggling like school girls. I burst out of the fitting room in an effort to detangle myself, but he’s wrapped too tightly around me. As we trip forth, there’s somebody just outside.

“Justin?”

My face falls and I shake Brian off, straightening up. “Ethan.”

I feel like I should say more, but I have no idea what that would be. Yes, Justin Taylor, at a loss for words. Mark it in the calendar.

“What are you doing here?”

I’m flustered. “Shopping.” Smooth, Taylor. “Oh, in New York? I live here.”

“You live here? Really?” He pauses to let that sink in. Then, with attitude to spare, adds “Uh, don’t you mean ‘ _We_ live here.’ I assume…I mean, I would ask if you two are together, but after overhearing your little party in there I suppose it would be rhetorical.”

His chest puffing, I feel Brain about to dispense some cutting comment, and I don’t want this to deteriorate. So I calmly reply, “That’s really none of your business.” Then, not caring but needing to move things along, I inquire, “Are you living here too now?”

“No. I’m on the road so much I barely live anywhere. I’m here to do a signing at Tower tomorrow, so I came over to find something suitable to wear. My CD dropped on Tuesday.”

“Congratulations,” offers a voice from behind me. Both of us are a little taken aback by Brian’s genuineness, and it clearly shows in our expressions. “What? I respect achievement. I’m going to let you two ladies catch up.” He kisses me chastely and struts back out into the store.

“Is he still fucking anything with a dick when he’s not fucking you?”

“Ethan…”

He stops me. “I know. I’m sorry. I guess I’m still jealous of the hold he has on you. I figured you’d go right back to him.” Good for you, Einstein. Who didn’t? “You know, you accused me of never loving you, only my music. Well, don’t think I didn’t know you never really loved me. You were still too in love with him. Both of you finding ways to stay tangled up in each others lives, playing this game where he’d try to win you back, all the while insisting he didn’t want you, and you pretending you weren’t dying for it to happen.” He looks down, dejected. “I guess to be fair, though, you never said you did.”

“Huh?”

“You never said it. I’d say it, all the time. Sometimes you’d answer ‘Me too,’ or something like that. But you never once said the words to me.

What? “Of course I….I …” I stutter, searching my memory. Nope. Can’t think of a single time. Just him making little comments like, “That’s why you love me.” Whoa. How the fuck could I not have realized that? Me. When that’s the precise reason I was with him to begin with. I flash back to that confrontation with Brian. _He loves me_ , I’d told him. Not _I love him_. And with Daphne, trying to convince myself I must love him if I was jealous. Except I wasn’t, was I? It was my romantic delusions that were devastated, not my heart. Besides, how well I know that if you’re truly in love, there’s no need to convince yourself. It’s undeniable (unless, of course, you’re Brian Kinney). “I’m sorry. I know how shitty that feels.”

“Yeah, I know you do. But I guess you love him enough to stay with him anyway. Even though that selfish prick will never tell you he loves you or give you the life you really want.”

Hypocritical bastard. For some reason I feel like I have to defend Brian. I’m so fucking sick of everyone calling him selfish (when I’m the one…anyway).

“For your information, he _has_ told me he loves me. But more importantly, he shows me every day, in ways you could never understand. You’re the one who taught me how meaningless those words can be. How much more what he gives me is worth.” Then I cheerfully drop the bomb. “Oh, and he proposed.”

“He…he what?” He couldn’t have looked more stunned if I told him Brian had taken a vow of celibacy.

“You heard me correctly. He asked me to marry him.”

Shell-shocked, he just stares. Before he can recover, Brian returns with his arm around some cute twink.

“Lookey who I met,” he twitters brightly. The guy walks over to Ethan and kisses him.

“Justin, this is Cole. Cole, this is Justin. He’s, um, an old friend.”

“Nice to meet you,” offers Cole.

Ethan addresses Brian. “How the fuck did you know…”

“Justin,” He ignores Ethan, instead turning his attention to me, his exaggerated tone illustrating how immensely he’s enjoying this. “Isn’t that an interesting piece of jewelry Cole is wearing?”

It’s then I see it. Not just on Cole, but on Ethan as well. Funny, I hadn’t noticed it before.

“It’s a gift from Ethan,” he boasts proudly, extending his hand. Ethan, on the other hand, looks as if he’d like nothing more than to dissolve into thin air on the spot. “He has a matching one. They’re one of a kind.”

“So I’ve heard.” I answer flatly. I turn to leave, and Brian follows. Just before I’m through the door, Ethan calls to me.

“Justin!” I turn back toward him. “What was your answer?”

“What do you think?” I say coyly. Then I put my arm around Brian and walk out.

~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*

“So what does a fag do around this burg for fun?” Brian wonders as we return to the room. We change into our sexiest club clothes. However, when we inspect the results it inspires us to promptly rip them off of each other, confirming that they are indeed effective. Finally we make it out of the room and I take him to Rise, one of the largest clubs in the city. The sheer volume of people can be impressive and intimidating. It’s one of the few times I’ve ever seen him dumbfounded. He of course acclimates quickly though, and taking hold of the waistband of my pants, drags me onto the dance floor. We dance and kiss and touch, reminding me so much of that first night at Babylon after the Ethan fiasco (what a fucking moron I am). Neither of us is ignorant of the fact that we’re being watched. Some cruising me, some him, and some drawn by the obvious electricity between us. But it doesn’t matter that there are probably a thousand desirable men around me. For me there’s only one.

Sweaty and thirsty, we make our way to the bar. He scans the room like the pro he is. “I feel like a kid in a candy store…at Disney World…on Christmas. Quite a selection.”

“New York offers nothing if not excess.”

“Speaking of excess, do you have anything?”

“You didn’t bring your own? I’m shocked.”

“Thought it wasn’t a great idea to drag recreational drugs through security at the airport.”

“Wise man. I don’t have anything on me, and I don’t know the people around here well enough yet to know who to trust.” Resting my head on his shoulder, I joke, “You’ll have to get high on being with me.” He rolls his eyes as I kiss his neck.

I catch him studying a smoldering hottie delivering the come hither stare and then turning to walk toward the far corner of the room, looking back invitingly.

“So where’s the back room in this fine establishment?”

I nod toward the offending hottie.

Brian heads off after him, but after a few steps turns and holds out his hand to me. “You coming?”

“I certainly hope to,” I respond, taking it and trotting happily after him.

We settle on an available spot and I push him against the wall, my hand unyielding on the center of his chest. Kissing while I open his shirt, I run my tongue between his pecs and down the indentation that trails down his stomach, his fingers combing my hair. I pause at his navel, nipping and teasing as I undo his pants and remove his hardening cock. A topless Adonis sidles up beside me and bends his head to suck on Brian’s nipple. Never taking his eyes off of me, he uses his arm to separate the man from his chest and firmly rebuffs him. “Sorry, this is a private party.” He returns his hand to the back of my head, eyes brimming with lust, and I reward him. Handsomely.  



	7. 7- Oh, Canada!

**Justin’s POV**

“It’s open,” I call out to whoever’s knocking on the studio door. 

Alex pops his head in. “You do know you’re in New York now, right? Didn’t your mother ever teach you to ask who it is before you let somebody in? Not to mention that you don’t leave doors unlocked in this city. _Ever_.”

“Hi!” I said, surprised to see him. “I guess I’m still getting used to living defensively.” 

“Adjust quickly, or you may not get the chance at all.” He’s standing in the doorway since there’s barely enough space for both of us and the canvass I’m working on in the room. “I hope you don’t mind, but I asked Bernard for your number, and your roommate told me I could find you here. A friend gave me two tickets to the Martin Kippenberger exhibit at MOMA and I thought maybe you’d like to go with me.” 

Happy for the excuse to get away from this painting I can’t seem to mold into my vision, I accept. “Sounds great. Can we run by my place first, though? I should probably change.” I had more paint on me than on the canvass. 

“No problem.” 

We walk back to the apartment and I undress, conscious of the fact that Alex isn’t wasting the opportunity to check me out. He sees me catch him and his face turns wildly crimson. Examining his shoes, he says, “So, that Brian guy. He’s pretty hot.” 

“I’m aware. And believe me, so is he.” 

“Is he your boyfriend?” 

Well, Justin? Answer the man. “That’s kind of a loaded question at the moment. It’s a very long and complicated story.” 

“We’re spending the whole afternoon together. I’ve got time.”  

It takes me the subway ride, most of the stroll through the exhibit and regular collections (stopping, of course, to talk _some_ about the artwork), and the ride back downtown to regale him with the Saga of Brian and Justin.

 

“’Complicated’ doesn’t quite do the situation justice, does it?” he observes as I conclude. “So where exactly are you two now?” 

 

“He’s in Pittsburgh and I’m in New York.”

 

“Obviously. That’s not what I meant.”

 

“I know. But right now it’s the only answer I have.”

  

*************************

**Brian’s POV**   

Whoever invented the vibrating ring for cell phones should be given a fucking Nobel Peace Prize. Every time mine goes off, I nearly do. I give it a minute for my own enjoyment before I pull it out (the phone, that is) and answer. “Kinney.”

 

“Hello, Kinney. Taylor here.”

 

“Hey! Where the fuck are you calling from? ‘Unknown’ popped up.”

 

“I’m using Jessica’s cell, and she has this thing about Caller ID so she arranged to be anonymous. I forgot to charge mine.”

 

“My forgetful little artist. So what’s going on? How’s that large canvass you were working on?”

 

“I took a break from it. I’m a little blocked, so I’m playing with some multimedia stuff. I saw some pieces at MOMA last week that inspired me. Did you come up with something for the new Remson campaign?”

 

“You won’t believe this, but Theodore actually had a compelling idea that we’ve based it on. I just emailed you some proofs earlier today. Tell me what you think. He’s surprisingly competent. Not just the number crunching shit, but closing deals and coming up with some decent concepts. Of course, if you tell him I said that I’ll tie you up and punish you severely.”

 

“Promises, promises. Oh, Gregory spoke with Bernard, and Fabre’s going to take two of my pieces. He also has two other galleries lined up. He says I need to jump right on all the interest the reviews from the show are prompting. I really need to get moving creating some new pieces.”

 

“I heard he gave Lindsay a hard time about getting some of your work up there.”

 

“Yeah, but I took care of that. I let him know in no uncertain terms that Linds gets whatever the fuck she wants, and that if he had a problem with that I could find other representation.”

 

“Careful, tiger. He’s the best. Lindsay wouldn’t want you to screw yourself out of a good situation on her behalf.”

 

“How long have you known me?”

 

“Too long.”

 

“Then you must realize I would never choose commercial endeavors over something I believe in strongly. And I believe strongly in loyalty.”

 

“There you go, pulling out the $100 words.”

 

“Not what I want to be pulling out. I know it’s only been a week, but I miss you. I wish I could afford to come home more.”

 

“You know I’d…”

 

“No. I need to take care of myself. And the truth is, I can’t keep running home. I have to make this my home. It’s just that…” (I crave your touch, your scent, the feel of you inside me) “…while the phone sex is great, trying to blow you by cell phone is too problematic.”

 

“That’s why I bought you the web cam. Would you fucking set it up already? And you never know when I might turn up.”

 

“I don’t think blowing you over the web cam is going to be any easier, but I’ll hook it up this afternoon. Right now I’ve got to run. Jared just got here. We’re going to look at a couple of apartments. I love Jess, but I’m ready to have my own place.”

 

“Try to find someplace that won’t require me to get shots before I visit.”

 

“You and your LOFTy standards.”

 

“Ha ha. So clever.”

 

“I know. Later.”

 

“Later.”

 

~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*

 

As soon as I read Lindsay’s email, I send one of my own.

 

Flying up to Toronto the weekend after next. I simply cannot be alone for two days with a pair of munchers and no fags to balance them out. It’s JT’s turn to rescue Rage. As an added incentive, I assure you I’ll show my appreciation -- repeatedly. 

 

B

 

P.S. And you’ll be doing me a favor, so the ticket’s on me. No arguments.

 

The truth is, although I miss Lindsay and Gus, my reason for the visit is as much to lure Justin up there as it is to see them. He’s working too hard for his independence to take me up on my offers to fly him home for a weekend, and he doesn’t have the money to do it on a whim himself. I’ve gone up twice, once for his show and then a quick visit last week because I thought if I didn’t fuck him I would explode. But I feel like an outsider in his life there, like I’m his stalker this time, and it makes me feel pathetic. Fuck that.

 

Later that evening, he emails me back:

 

After all the times Rage has rescued JT, it’s about time he reciprocates. I suppose I have no option but to consent.

 

J

 

I respond:

 

We both know JT’s done his share of rescuing, but that doesn’t mean he shouldn’t still feel obligated. Cynthia will forward you the e-ticket. You’re arriving shortly after me, so I’ll meet you at your gate.

 

B

 

P.S. I certainly hope Toronto Pearson International has sturdy partitions in their bathroom stalls.

  

********************

**Justin’s POV**   

“There you two are! I called, and they said both of your flights came in on time. Did they lose your luggage or something?” Lindsay asks when Brian and I finally make it out of the airport.

 

I repress a chuckle when Brian answers, “We were detained. Some things required close inspection.” 

 

She rolls her eyes, understanding the code. “I’ll bet.”

 

We pull up to a charming house in a beautiful neighborhood. As we’re unloading the car, a gleeful scream of “DADDYYYYYYYYYYY!” wafts through the air as Gus tears down the walkway and is scooped up by his father. “Come see my trains, Daddy. I got lots of new ones.” Brian sets him down, and Gus begins to yank his hand before noticing me. “UNCLE JUSTIN!” He throws himself at me, encircling my legs and burying his face in my crotch (like father, like son).

 

I hug him back and kiss the top of his head. “Hey, kiddo.” He grabs my hand with his, and with the other recaptures Brian’s, dragging us both toward the front door. He demands our attention for hours with only the briefest break to eat, playing with his trains, showing us the house, the back yard, his room. Finally Lindsay tells him it’s time for bed and Brian takes him up to read him a story and tuck him in. I leave them with some private time and go coo over JR. 

 

After I put her down for the night, I peek into Gus’s room to see Brian cuddled up with him, reading him a story. My chest nearly bursts as I listen to him act out the book, using a variety of voices for the different characters. Once Gus has succumbed to his fatigue, Brian disentangles himself, pets the tiny head and gives him a loving kiss on the forehead. He quietly stalks out of the room, and I meet him at the door with an adoring kiss. “If I wasn’t already madly in love with you, that would have clinched it.”

 

“Hmmm. This is what I want to clinch.” His hand slips between my legs and gives me a squeeze that sends tingles down my spine, all the while backing me into the guest room we’re occupying across the hall.

 

“Behave yourself.” I scold. “Gus is right across the hall, and Mel and Linds are next door. Neither one of us has exactly perfected the art of silent fucking.”

 

He looks at me as if my last statement was in Swahili. “If you think I’m going to sleep next to you for two nights and not fuck you, I’m taking you to the ER. The paint fumes have clearly done some damage to your brain.”

 

As soon as it’s out, I see the shadow pass over his face. Placing my hand on his arm, I reassure him, “It’s o.k. I’m o.k.”

 

“It was a stupid fucking thing to say.”

 

“Please. It was nothing. If you really want to feel shitty about something you’ve said to me, we have plenty of other options.”

 

He lets out a fake, sarcastic laugh.

 

“Look, if the brain damage didn’t kill me, bad brain damage humor certainly won’t.”

 

“It wasn’t _bad_ , just thoughtless.” he mumbles defensively.

 

“You need a shower.”

 

He sniffs his pit. “I do?”

 

“You know, I think I do too. With the water on full blast and a radio blaring.” I raise my eyebrows, telegraphing my meaning.

 

“And a gag in your mouth?”

 

“Good thought, but we didn’t bring the ball gag. Hmmm. What else could I put in my mouth?”

  

***********************************

**Brian’s POV**   

It’s still unthinkable to me that not only am I willing to fuck the same person over and over (and over and over and over…), but I actually look forward to it. Can’t get enough of it. Fucking dream about it. Unreal.

 

I can’t sleep. Must be the jetlag. I’ll just ignore the fact that there’s no time difference between Toronto and Pittsburgh. Because it can’t be that he’s here, next to me, and I just want to savor it. Shit. I hate that I miss him so fucking much. I study him, laying on his back, one arm folded over his stomach, the other over his chest. I’ve always wondered how he sleeps like that. It looks to me the way a child pretending to be asleep would lay. It’s one of those tiny quirks that I tease him about relentlessly but secretly find endearing. Like the way his mouth gapes when he’s concentrating. Or the increasingly verbose he gets the more he wants to avoid what he needs to say. All those little idiosyncrasies that so distinguish him, that make him uniquely Justin, that make him feel like mine. Christ! It’s this muncher house. It obviously casts a fucking lesbian spell over all who dare to enter.

 

His lips are moving, although no sound is coming out. Watching those plump, pink lips, imagining them around my cock, awakens it. Mesmerized by his mouth, my eyes fixated on those tantalizing lips, I finally figure out that they’re forming my name. The corners of my mouth turn up as the sheet slowly tents below his hips, and I duck underneath to do what I can to make his dream a reality.

 

In his sleep he’s even less inhibited than usual with his vocal appreciation of my actions, and it’s so hot. Thinking of the steam that must be pouring out of Mel’s ears next door makes me laugh with him in my mouth, and the vibration causes him to arch his back sharply and release a resounding “Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!” In arching, he lifts his hips off of the bed. It’s slight, but enough for me to reach in and insert a finger past his tight little hole. Automatically he cries out (no, screams out is more accurate) and shoots generously into my waiting mouth.

 

“Shit! How loud was I?” he asks, mortified, as he reaches full consciousness.

 

“I think the gang back in the Pitts may have heard that one.”

 

He slaps me. Hard. “Brian!” That one’s going to leave a mark. “You know how much noise I make when you wake me up with sex. How could you do that to me?”

 

“Like this.” I lean down and flick my tongue over his nipple. He shoves me away, but I catch the moment’s hesitation, the quick aroused expression that crosses his face. “Hey, don’t blame me. Blame your dick. Your morning hard on appeared a tad early. I was only trying to oblige.”

 

He puts his hands over his face, and when he removes them, he has a mischievous look in his eye. Determined to exact his revenge, he positions himself with confidence. After all, he knows precisely what to do to me to make me holler. And he does it. Well. Twice.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

“Good morning,” Justin mumbles as we walk into the kitchen, blushing furiously, his eyes firmly down as takes a seat at the table next to Gus. 

 

Lindsay just sports that exasperated smile of hers. I shrug, concurring that yes, I am incorrigible, and damned proud of it.

 

Mel, coffee in hand, glides by me and mutters for my ears only, “At least Justin has the decency to be embarrassed.”

 

My response, however, is for the room. Annoying her is such easy fun. Almost too easy, but what the fuck. “Jealousy is not attractive on you, Mel. But then again, what is?”

 

“Jealousy? Lest you forget, I’m a dyke. I have no designs on your…what are we calling him these days? No offense, Justin.”

 

“I just mean you’re clearly in desperate need of an earth rattling fuck.” I make a beeline for the coffee pot.

 

“Who wants pancakes?” Lindsay offers, forcedly chipper, trying feebly to delicately interrupt the direction of the conversation.

 

“I’ll take some,” pipes Justin, grateful for the change in subject.

 

“ME! I want two!” adds Gus. “Uncle Justin, are you o.k.?”

 

“I’m fine, Gus. Why?”

 

“I woke up last night and I heard you yell. Daddy too. Did you hurt yourself?”

 

I had just taken a large gulp of coffee, needing it urgently after the long, hard night (nudge, nudge, wink, wink). It sprayed from my lips like a spit take in a bad sitcom.

 

“No, Gus. I’m not hurt. Neither is Daddy.” Six eyes glared at me.

 

“Then how come you yelled?”

 

“Gus, come help Mommy make your pancakes. We can do them in the Mickey Mouse shape.”

 

“YAY!” Gus dashes over to Lindsay at the counter. The second successful pancake distraction of the morning.

 

Justin leans over and swats me. But I’m hopelessly amused by the whole episode. With conviction he informs me, “Tonight we’re hitting Church Street so we can…” He hesitates, looking back at Gus, “… _yell_ in some back room instead of their guest room.”

 

"Whatever you say, Sunshine." Yeah. Right.


	8. 8 - It's In His Kiss

**Lindsay’s POV**  

“I’m sorry to whisk you away. I know you and Brian don’t get much time together.”

“It’s o.k. Neither do he and Gus. He’d hate me saying this, but they’re so sweet together.”

 

“They are, aren’t they? Gus just adores him. He talks about him all the time.” I glance over, finding his face encased in the most adorable smile. “You look like a man in love.”

 

Bashfully he concurs, “Must be because I am.”

 

“It’s obvious he is too.” His radiant smile slowly turns sad. “I know this separation has been difficult on both of you.”

 

“It’s not the separation. I mean, it is, but there’s so much more to it than that.” A trembling breath ekes out. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

 

I return the sad smile, curious what he means by that. Was there another reason they called off the wedding? As soon as they announced it wasn’t going to happen, I was sure there was some factor I was unaware of. Justin had been so adamant with me about Brian being more important to him than New York, his “opportunity of a lifetime” he’d said. I believe he meant that one hundred percent. So what else happened? I just assumed that Brian talked him into going. Was there more? Did Brian do something…Brian-like? It’s clear, though, that I shouldn’t ask. At least not him. Not now.

 

In the quiet lull his comment launches, an interesting theory crystallizes in my mind. “It’s funny. The two people who changed Brian from the moment they entered his life came to him on the same night.”

 

He snickers, “I didn’t change him as soon as we met. It took five years of tenacity, leaving him over and over again, and two near death experiences to budge that stubborn son of a bitch!”

 

Chuckling, I suggest, “It may have taken all of that for him to admit it, but you tapped into something inside him nobody else ever had, or probably ever will, right away. Something I don’t think he had any idea was even there.”

 

“Where do you get that from?”

 

“First of all, he brought you to the hospital for something as personal and revealing as the birth of his son.”

 

“Not by choice. I was with him at the loft when Mel called, and I insisted I couldn’t go home. I’d told my parents I was sleeping at Daphne’s.”

 

I throw him an unmistakable you-can’t-be-serious look. “Come on. We’re talking about Brian. If _by choice_ he didn’t want you there, he wouldn’t have hesitated to take you home anyway. Or he easily could have dropped you off at Daphne’s, or left you at the loft or with Emmett when he picked up Michael. For goodness sake, he could have just made you wait in the hospital lobby. There were plenty of other alternatives. And then, when we discussing names, he looked right past Michael to ask you what you thought. You didn’t know him well enough at the time to recognize how striking that was, but you certainly do now. Can you imagine him bringing some random trick he never wanted to see again along for something like that, let alone overlooking his best friend to let him make such a meaningful decision? I’m not suggesting it was love at first sight. Brian could never be open enough for that. Or even that it was conscious on his part. But there was something about you that affected him from that very first night.”

 

“If that’s true, why did he constantly attempt to extricate me from his life?”

 

“He didn’t. Not really. He wanted it to appear that he did, but we both know that if he truly wanted you out of his life, he would have made it happen. I love Brian dearly, but that doesn’t make me blind to the fact that he can be a real SOB when he wants to. He made sure he was enough of one to maintain the illusion of the cold and uncaring scoundrel while still giving you glimpses of another side of himself, glimpses he lets very few people ever see, craftily pulling you in while making a show of pushing you away. Besides, I have no doubt whatever it was he was feeling terrified him. Not only was it completely foreign to him, but Brian Kinney isn’t supposed to have feelings like that. He’s not supposed to have feelings at all.” His face remains blank, but he’s evidently considering my perspective, so I continue, “I knew what I sensed at the hospital wasn’t just my postpartum hormones gone wild when he came to the GLC art show. You know how he feels about the Center. Yet he showed up, for you.”

 

“No he didn’t. He showed up for you, because you asked him too.”

 

“He’d never come to anything else there I’d asked him to. Let alone make a contribution.”

 

“He made a contribution that night? To the _Center_?”

 

“Technically. When he bought the drawing, since that’s where all of those proceeds went.”

 

“What drawing?”

 

Uh oh. I’m sure I look like a kid caught with her hand in the cookie jar. He must not know. Still? Oh, Brian. Well, I might incur the wrath of Kinney for this, but, “I never imagined you wouldn’t know by now.” His face both curious and expectant, he stares at me. Here goes. “Yours, Justin. The one of him sleeping.”

 

“He’s the one who bought that? No way. He couldn’t have. I lived with him! I would have seen it at some point.”

 

“I can’t tell you what he did with it, but I can assure you he bought it. When he looked at that piece, there was such tenderness behind his eyes.”

 

He muses, “Of course there was. He was looking at himself!” We both laugh, because although he was joking, there’s probably a grain of truth to that (more than a grain). 

 

We arrive at the gallery, and I’m so excited to tell him the news I fumble with the keys. Just one step inside the door exposes his piece (minds out of the gutter, people), hung in our most prominent space.

 

“Wow, I’m flattered.”

 

Finally! It’s been killing me not spilling it sooner. “You shouldn’t be. It’s there purely for business reasons.” I look right at him. “It sold the day we hung it.”

 

“You’re kidding!” 

 

“I’m not. When I found out you were coming, I waited so I could tell you in person.” I can’t stop grinning, I’m so delighted and proud. “When you have some available, we’d love to exhibit more of your work.”

 

“I’ll pack something up as soon as I get back to New York. I told Gregory you get first priority.”

 

What a sweetheart. “You have to promise that you won’t jeopardize your career in any way for me. I want you to have all the success you deserve.”

 

“What I deserve is to be the man I want to be, and that includes always putting the people who are important to me first. That’s what _I_ consider success, and being successful in my own eyes is all that matters. Fuck the rest of it.”

 

I marvel at what a self-assured young man he is. I hope Gus has that strong a sense of himself when he’s Justin’s age. When he’s any age. Few do. I’ve always believed that a large part of what draws Brian to him is that he’s courageous and secure in ways Brian only pretends to be. Well, that and his cute little butt.

 

“Shall we go rescue Brian?” He nods, and we hop back in the car. On the ride back to the park, he fills me in on all the activity that’s been going on with his career in the month since I’d been down for the show. Just as I predicted, it was all coming together for him. 

 

As we pull into the parking lot, I place my hand on his arm, halting his exit from the car. “I’m so glad you didn’t give up on him. Most people misunderstand his ways. But you’ve always recognized who he really is, how much he does for the people he cares about.” We share a knowing smile. “You talk about all the things he’s done for you, given you. I hope you know that what you’ve given him is just as valuable, if not more.” He leans over to kiss my cheek and give me a hug.

 

We approach the playground, but hang back for a few minutes to spy on Brian and Gus. I can never seem to stop the brief what-might-have-been thoughts from creeping in when I see them together. I love Mel with all my heart, but there will always be a hint of “what if” that dangles over me when it comes to Brian. Our surveillance doesn’t last long. Gus spots us and flies across the park.

 

“Come see what I can do. All by myself. Come see!” He proceeds to perform various stunts that are only impressive to the people who love him. But I’m the president of that club, so I’m thoroughly enchanted.

 

Brian places his hand on my back, directing me to the bench, reciting with a cheesy drawl, “Maw ‘n Paw are gonna set a spell. You younguns go enjoy yerselves.” 

 

We all crack up at Gus’s reaction, which can only be termed utter bewilderment. I translate, “Sweetie, Mommy and Daddy are going to sit on that bench right there. You and Justin go play, and we’ll watch.” 

 

They tumble off, two balls of energy, scurrying around the lot. We’re entertained in silence for a bit, Justin turning to communicate with us frequently by facial expression.

 

“He’s doing well,” I open.

 

“I knew he would. So did you.” He challenges me with his eyes, “Isn’t that why you showed me the review, and sicced your husband on me?”

 

“Mel? What does she have to do with anything?”

 

“She so graciously pointed out how much Justin was sacrificing to be with me.”

 

“I had no idea she did that.” His take on the situation is dawning on me. “I showed you the review because I suspected he wouldn’t, and I knew you’d want to see it. When he so completely disregarded Simon’s article, I thought you could help him recognize that he was squandering an extraordinary opportunity, as well as underestimating himself. I know you. You would hate it if he didn’t fully exploit his talent, especially if he used you as motivation. I never intended to do anything to interfere with your future together. I’m sure Mel didn’t either.”

 

He tilted his head to the side, leaning it against mine. “It’s o.k. You were right. Both of you.”

 

Distraught, I try to explain, “But I never meant for this to push you apart. Not now, now that you’ve finally admitted to him and to yourself how you feel about him.”

 

He actually looks surprised at that, which hurts. “Really? That’s not what you were aiming for when you said he’d tamed me like a horse? Or that I didn’t sound like the Brian Kinney you knew and loved?” Then, with a painful level of sorrow in his voice, he mutters something I can’t quite make out. I think it might have been, “Popular opinion apparently.” 

 

Could he be right? When I said those things, I just wanted to remind him of who he is so he would stop trying to keep us in Pittsburgh. But was there a part of me so attached to my _fantasy_ of who he is that I subconsciously refused to accept real changes in him, and in turn destroyed his chance at happiness? I certainly hope that’s not true.

 

He persisted with the confrontation, “Anyway, what did you think would happen when he sailed off to the promised land?”

 

For a brilliant man, he can be quite thick. Looking him dead in the eye, my voice is steeped in my well developed maternal tone. “Brian, why aren’t you there?”

 

“Because I’m here. Fabulous as I am, I can hardly be in two places at once.” Uh uh.  Try again, mister. Without saying a word or altering my gaze, I wait. So cringing, lighting a cigarette, he snipes, “I’m not some pretty little housewife blindly following her man on his quest for personal fulfillment, all the while crooning Tammy Wynette.”

 

“Bullshit.” I grab the cigarette and take a drag. “It’s not Toledo or Boise. It’s fucking New York! As long as I’ve known you, you’ve talked about New York like it’s the Motherland. Even backing that pig Stockwell was about access to his connections so you could sail off yourself, wasn’t it? It wouldn’t be about following Justin. It would be about you and your career as much as it’s about him and his. And it would be about making a life with the person you love.” He snatches the cigarette back. “So do you want to tell me the real reason you’re still in Pittsburgh?”

 

He squints, debating whether or not to drop the façade. When he brings his thumb to his mouth, gnawing at the nail, I know which way he’s going. “He needs to do this on his own.”

 

Now it’s starting to make sense. “And how about you? What do you need?”

 

“I need him to be happy.” My heart swells. Why can’t he show more people this Brian? Maybe then Mel and everyone else would understand my devotion. I plant a loving, sympathetic kiss on his cheek which promptly snaps him out of his unguarded moment. “Don’t do that. Don’t make me out to be some kind of fucking martyr. Kinnetik hasn’t even been in business for two years. It’s too soon for expansion like that. And I just reopened Babylon. I’m where I need to be. For me.”

 

“Of course.” He shoots me a patented aggravated Kinney sneer, wanting it to inform me I’m being patronizing, but really showcasing his displeasure that I see right through all the posturing. 

 

As if on cue, a squeal cuts the air as Gus, upside down in Justin’s grip, wriggles and giggles. “Daddy! Help!”

 

“Unhand my child,” Brian booms as he lunges toward them, relieved for the excuse to abandon me on the bench. I sit back and enjoy the scene in front of me, the three of them a beautiful picture. Oh, good thought! I pull out my cell phone and snap a shot I know all four of us will cherish.

  

********************

**Brian’s POV**   

After a decidedly child oriented dinner out, Justin and I dump the munchers and the rugrats, heading to Church Street for some adult fun. I show him some of the spots we discovered when we were up here for the Liberty Ride, touring the bars first, then the clubs, dancing until our legs ache, sampling several back rooms and alleys. It’s past three when the cab drops us back at the house, impressively inebriated, stumbling up the path. We somehow make it up the stairs without waking the lot of them and climb into bed, although neither of us wants to sleep away the few remaining hours we have left together. 

 

“Guess we left our mark on Toronto.” I quip.

 

“I did. You just left your mark in me,” he retorts. Rolling to me for a quick kiss, he continues, “That was fun. There’s a considerable gay population here.”

 

“Not more considerable than New York.”

 

“No.” Those little blonde wheels turning, he contemplates, “I never realized how much we isolate ourselves in Pittsburgh.” I turn to him, patiently waiting for the inevitable exposition. After a Justin-esque pause he continues, “We stick pretty much to Liberty Avenue, or to the ‘gay areas’ of town. When I moved to New York it really hit me how different it is there. Sure, fags are more prevalent in the village, but still, everywhere you go there are same sex couples holding hands, walking arm in arm, kissing, like us when we were making out at Art Rock. Nobody bats an eye. It’s just…normal.”

 

“There were plenty of eyes batting,” I remind him.

 

He grins widely at the memory. “Because we were practically fucking on the sidewalk. Not because we were two guys kissing. I attributed it to the fact that it’s New York, where anything goes. But it feels more like that here too. Like we could go anywhere and be…us. I’m glad Gus gets to grow up in a place like that.”

 

“That’s why they moved here,” I mumble, distracted, no longer listening to his persistent babbling. My attentions have turned to the soft, porcelain skin of his shoulder. I begin a string of small, mellow kisses there, continuing idly down one arm while his other crosses his body, his hand resting on the side of my face. When I reach the underside of his wrist, his fingers curl in to gingerly tickle my chin. Shifting to his stomach, my lips continue their gentle assault, his fingers lightly rummaging through my hair. My eyes close, relishing the feel of his silky skin as the rise and fall of his breaths become steady, subdued. 

 

We must have lost our battle against sleep, because I’m next aware of knocking invading my dreams. I feel his fingers stir, still entangled in my hair, and realize I’d used his midriff as a pillow.

 

“What?” I grumble at the intruder, immobile.

 

Lindsay pops her head around the door and, seeing our pose, gets the look on her face women get when slobbering over babies. If she coos, “Awwww,” she’s out of my life, permanently. Saving herself, she instead advises us, “Mel, Gus and I are going out to pick up some things for brunch. JR just went down for her morning nap, so we’re going to leave her here with you. But she should sleep until we get back, which won’t be for at least an hour.” She flashes a conspiratory smile. Subtlety was never her strong point, but in this case who gives a fuck. I love her for hatching the scheme.

 

Hearing the front door bang shut, the car driving off, we stretch, offering each other sleepy smiles. Both laying face down, heads turned toward one another, we give ourselves a moment for consciousness to take hold. Justin gets there first, lifting his head and dipping it forward for a kiss. At first innocent, we reconnect for a deeper version. I inch toward him, my sleep aborted plan resuscitated. I dispense sliding, wet, open mouth kisses on his neck, his back, tasting him, lingering, pampering each spot before resuming my downward travels.

 

“Mmmm,” he moans dreamily. “That feels really nice.”

 

I continue my trail, pausing at the very top of his crack, teasing with my nose as he groans his approval. I use the tips of my fingers to rake up the back of his thigh, triggering a full body tremble. Parting his cheeks, my tongue slides down, halting just before I reach the pale pink pucker. A tiny cry escapes as he pushes up, trying to force me toward it, but I reverse direction, kissing back up the trail to the apex of his flawless ass. Heavy breaths betray his escalating arousal, then catch when my finger runs along the route my tongue just forged. As it circles his hole, he writhes against the cool sheets.

 

“Please…” he begs.

 

“Please what?”

 

“Fuck me!”

 

“Not yet.” I return to my oral manipulations, my lips and tongue slathering his lower back with saliva. Rutting against the mattress, his hands brutally wring the pillow. When I again reach his spasming hole, his hips pop into the air, commanding attention. My tongue flicks quickly at the opening, and I prod, “Do you like that?”

 

“Yes,” his response is rapid, resonant.

 

My tongue finds its way back, fluttering around the edges before plunging through the tight ring. He bucks slightly, and begins to huff as my tongue rhythmically presses in. This always makes him crazy, and extracting the predicted reaction always makes me hard. I expertly roll on a condom, never altering my tempo as he thrusts his pelvis, directing my tongue. Without warning, I replace it with two well lubed fingers, pumping and twisting as I ply him open. Scissoring them suddenly, I hear his strangled moan, “Oh god, I’m so…ahhh…fuck me! NOW! Pleasssssssssssse,” his plea transforming into a shuddering hiss when I run the back of my index finger, fresh out of him, along the underside of his cock, massaging the throbbing vein. I feel it pulsate, then warmth flowing along my hand. At the height of his orgasm I ram myself into him entirely, balls deep, incapable of waiting a second longer to feel his tight, fevered walls surround me, all of me. Way past the point of being able to ease into it, to allow him to adjust, to welcome me in. No, it’s too late for that. A feral howl of pleasured pain fuses with his renewed keening as I savagely impale him, his body conflicted, unsure if it should complete the first eruption or join my journey to the next, straining to manage both. Decision made, he pushes back, forcing my cock further into him, finding the exact required angle. I hit his prostate and shorten my strokes, lessening the wait for the next impact. Feeling it bump my throbbing tip again and again, I’m dizzy. He reaches for his dick, solid, barely softening after he came, but I catch his hand before it reaches its target, lacing my fingers with his. Squeezing them, he drops his head, and I know even from the back that he’s gnashing his teeth, scrunching his face tightly, bracing himself for the imminent finale. Picturing it, I wish he was on his back. Foreseeing the magnitude of his rapidly approaching combustion, all I want is to witness his face as it arrives. I consider switching positions, but the thought is fleeting. I’m too far gone. Too close. The searing heat already darting to the base of my spine just from the imagined view. My ass clenches as I drive even further into him, grunting with the agonizing tension. He rears up against me, jaw slack in a silent scream, head pressed against my shoulder, his arm reaching back and yanking me to him for a frenetic kiss, his eager lips, tongue, trying to suck me inside of him, longing to be filled by me at both ends. My fist slides up his cock, my thumb brushing across the sensitive tip, and he’s gone again. Crashing back to the bed, he clings to my leg, smashing his face into the mattress. Sounds reminiscent of weeping ooze from him as he tightens, drawing me deeper yet inside him, so deep I must be permanently embedded. Without delay I follow his lead, folding over him, my chest meeting his back, the union slicked with copious sweat and spit. Lips pressed between his shoulder blades, arms wrapped around his middle, my forehead bears down on the back of his neck, a roar forming at the core of me, thundering as it surfaces, our voices a cacophonous duet as we climax together, quaking uncontrollably.

 

Then his knees surrender, going out from under him and rendering him flat, blanketed by my body. I move to pull out, but both of his hands fly to hold me in place.

 

“No! Stay,” he implores. I close my eyes, breathing in the intoxicating perfume formed by the combined scents of sex and him. I delicately pet his arm, still gripping my ass, anchoring me. I kiss his back, nuzzle my face in the crook of his neck.

 

After a while I pull out and roll away only to hear his disappointed sigh. “That was incredible.”

 

I smile and wipe his brow, perspiration beading along it, smoothing the hair away from his face. He’s so fucking beautiful. “In…” bending down, I kiss the corner of his mouth, “…credible.” 

 

I really miss that. More than anything, maybe. Kissing him. Just…kissing him. I was always a big fan of kissing, but with tricks it’s something entirely different. Animalistic. Carnivorous. Primal. Not that we don’t kiss like that. Just now when we were fucking, for example. But there are those other kisses. I’m mystified I even have this thought, but I’m referring to the kisses that aren’t about sex. Not specifically. Fine. He was right. Fuck if I’ll tell him that, though. Kissing is probably our most effective mode of communication, his and mine. He should have known all along I loved him from the way I kissed him. Like that old, boppy song, now looping ruthlessly in my head: _If you wanna know if he loves you so, it’s in his kiss. That’s where it is, oh yeah!_ (Fucking hell! If I don’t escape this dyke trap soon, I swear I’m going to end up on the rag.) He’d like that (my thinking like this, not my being on the rag of course).

 

And then there’s the purely fun ones. I fondly remember loafing around the loft, watching TV and necking, missing entire programs as we made out like teenagers. (Oh, right. One of us _was_ a teenager. Ouch.) Or having Deb, or Michael, or one of the others whining for us to cut it out as we tongue wrestled incessantly at “family” gatherings. Or extended goodbyes in the car when I’d drop him off somewhere. Yeah, I miss kissing him. Kissing in general. I haven’t kissed anyone but him in years. Not since he made that fucking rule, but not only because of that. I didn’t even do it when we weren’t together. It’s just that kissing anyone else doesn’t seem to appeal to me any more. There it is, folks. I’m fucked. Good and truly fucked.


	9. 9 - Obla Di Obla Da

  
Author's notes: Reality can be a harsh mistress.  


* * *

**Daphne’s POV**   

I can’t believe I’m really living here. New York is so cool! More accurately, New York is so hot. Ungodly hot. Summer in this city is just plain wicked. Justin and Jessica flipped when I told them I was going to med school at Columbia. All three of us being here together is going to be awesome! Not that I’ll have much time for fun for the next few years. I plan to make the most of the month I have before the term begins.  

I just got to the city about an hour ago, stopped to drop my stuff off at my apartment (a small one bedroom I’m sharing with THREE other people in my class -- insanity), and headed downtown. I’m a little bummed Justin and I couldn’t work out sharing a place, but it didn’t make sense. I need to be way uptown near school, and he really wants to be downtown, near the village and SoHo. 

 

After the squeals and the greetings, Justin, Jess, Tony and I met up with Justin’s friend Alex and his new boyfriend Roy (who obviously annoys the shit out of Justin) and had an absolute blast. I can see why Alex and Justin were such fast friends. I haven’t seen Justin laugh that much in a long time. Besides, they’re so cute together.

 

As we walk back to Justin’s new place, we link arms and I get down to the nitty gritty. “Alex is really hot!”

 

“I noticed.”

 

“So?” I nudge him.

 

He shakes his head, scrunching his nose. “We’re just friends. Did you not notice his _boyfriend_ , Roy?”

 

“Please,” I dismiss. “Roy could have evaporated right there at the table and Alex wouldn’t have noticed. And maybe you find him so annoying because you’re a little jealous,” I sing impishly.

 

“Of Roy? Don’t be ridiculous. Alex and I get along really well. We have an amazing time together, but it’s strictly platonic.”

 

“Yeah, uh, why is that? I mean, seriously, why the hell haven’t you fucked him? You obviously enjoy his company, and we’ve established he’s more than a little drool worthy. Oh, and in case you missed it, he looks at you like…” I struggle to find an appropriate description, but he unearths the perfect one for me.

 

“Like I look at Brian?” he raises his eyebrows in agreement. “No, I haven’t missed it. That’s precisely why I haven’t fucked him. Because it wouldn’t be just a fuck.”

 

“To him or to you?”

 

“I don’t know. Both of us.”

 

“Good!”

 

“Daph...”

 

I sigh, frustrated. “I thought you and Brian weren’t together.”

 

“We’re not. Not exactly.”

 

Ignoring the qualifier, I continue. “And not just temporarily, right? You told me you could never be _really_ together because Brian had to ‘suppress his very essence’ to be with you the way you want, and you could never allow him to do that for you. Your words, not mine.”  

 

He looks tortured. “I still love him.”

 

“Who doesn’t?” I kid (sort of). No reaction. O.k., change tactics. “I know you do.” I rest my head on his shoulder. Poor guy. “But you loved him when you left him after you got out of the hospital, even though that only ended up being for one night. You loved him when you left him for Ethan. You loved him when you moved out this past winter.”

 

“Enough! I was there. This is different.”

 

“How?”

 

“He loves me too.”

 

“Uh huh.”

 

He looks at me, doing that eyebrow thing that that says, “That’s the whole shebang.” Geez. He and Brian are perfect for each other. They’re both fluent in eyebrow-speak.

 

“Of course he does. I repeat, how it’s different? He loved you then too. All of those times.”

 

“I know. I mean, I know now. But back then…then I was sure he loved me until he did, or said, or wouldn’t do or say something, and I’d think I’d been fooling myself, that I wanted it to be true so badly that I’d just convinced myself of it. Well, except for this winter. I knew unequivocally by then. We just wanted different…” he rambles, interrupting himself with a frustrated sigh. He looks at me as if he’s about to reveal something monumental. “Just after I moved to New York, when he didn’t know I was listening, I heard him tell Michael that he was already _in love with me_ the night of the prom.”

 

Uh, “Duh!”

 

Disappointment clouds his face, disconcerted I wasn’t rocked by his discovery, like when he told me about Brian in the first place and I wasn’t shocked he was gay. Yeah, ‘cause that was a tough one to decipher. That he thought this was new information consumed me with sadness, and he detected it immediately. 

 

“What’s wrong?”

 

Breathing deeply, deciding whether or not to go there, I determine he should hear this. “You just doubted how he felt because you can’t remember. Justin, everybody in the room that night could tell that Brian loved you, that you were crazy in love with each other. I told you before you guys were amazing, but it wasn’t just that your dancing was awesome, which it so was by the way. It was the way he looked at you. I don’t care if you’re gay, straight, bi…whatever. Every single person on earth dreams that someone will look at them like that at least once in their life. It was…” I practically swoon from the memory. How can I possibly describe it to him? “It was like some super romantic movie. His eyes never left yours from the moment you stepped on the floor until he pulled you away, like you were the only two people there and the rest of us just disappeared. And when he kissed you, oh my god. It wasn’t just a ‘gee, that was fun’ kiss, or even a steamy ‘I want to fuck you right here, right now’ kiss. It was _totally_ an ‘I love you to the depths of my soul’ kiss. Trust me. Girls can tell the difference, even if the tongue’s in somebody else’s mouth.”

 

We walk quietly for a few minutes, and he finally laments, “Fucking Hobbs. It’s so unfair I can’t remember that. The only memory I get to have back from that night is seeing a bat fly at my head.”

 

I give his arm a squeeze. “It wasn’t just the prom itself, you know. You should have seen him at the hospital. He was virtually catatonic, his eyes dead, fixed. It looked like he wasn’t even breathing. For three days he sat there covered in blood -- his clothes, his hands, his neck.”

 

“His neck?”

 

“I guess he held you before the ambulance got there. He wouldn’t even leave to change out of those clothes or shower or even wash his face. The only time I actually saw him move at all was to look at the doctor whenever he came out. He wouldn’t talk to anyone, wouldn’t eat. Michael was so worried he tried to force protein drinks down his throat, but it was no use. And you know, before that night I would have told you I didn’t think Brian Kinney was even physically capable of crying.”

 

“Wait. Crying? Brian cried?”

 

“Non-stop. Not, like, sobbing. But tears were just continually streaming down his face until the doctors told us they were fairly confident you’d wake up once the swelling in your brain went down. Then he just got up and walked out, without saying a word to anyone. I didn’t see him again until that day we hung out outside your mom’s townhouse.”

 

Again we walk in silence as he takes it all in. Inhaling deeply, he explains, “You asked how it’s different this time. The other times I left were for me. Because he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, love me the way I wanted. This time I had to leave because of how much he does love me. Because now we both know he could...would, whatever, love me in every way I’ve every dreamed. More even. But for me to let him…I love him too much to be that selfish. I didn’t leave for me this time. I left for him. It’s so much harder. You have no idea how hard it is.”

 

I skip the obvious joke (Brian wouldn’t have, you can be sure of that). Not the time though. I stop and grab his arms, forcing him to face me. “So what are you doing?” I repeat myself, each word stressed for emphasis. “Justin, what the fuck are you doing?”

 

He just stands there, a muddled mass of confusion and pain. 

 

“Look, you’ll probably always love each other. This isn’t about that. It’s disgustingly cliché, but sometimes love just isn’t enough. Fine. You love him. Does that mean you’re going to live the rest of your life hanging on to something you can’t let happen? Engaging only in empty, meaningless fucks with strangers except for scattered visits, each one reminding you of what you’ll never have? That sounds fantastic.”

 

“Shut up,” He whines with absolutely no conviction. Maybe I’m getting through.

 

“I know you. You need more than that. You supposedly let each other go so you could _both_ be happy. So go be happy. Otherwise, what was the point?” He looks like I shot his dog, but it’s just because he knows I’m right. “What you’ve got now is not the relationship you want, and not even the one he wants, which, need I remind you, you kept walking away from because it wasn’t enough. Now you’re settling for something that’s less than what either of you wants. A lot less. It makes no sense whatsoever. Be together. Or don’t be. But if you decide on the latter, give yourself a chance to be with somebody else.”

 

His red rimmed eyes droop and his voice chokes when he mumbles, “I fucking hate you.” 

 

I despise being the one to force this reality check on him, and it breaks my heart. But if I don’t I’m not much of a best friend, am I? Unfortunately, the only comfort I can offer is to put my arms around him in a big bear hug. We stand in the middle of the sidewalk like that for a long, long while.

  

*************************

**Justin’s POV**   

“Interesting collection of people,” I note as we wander through the party in search of some alcohol.  

“Stu, the director, works on Wall Street during the day. So it’s a mix of his work friends and theater folk,” Jared explains. “Daph! There’s that guy Mitchell I was telling you about. Every one of my friends wants a piece of that, but alas, he’s straight. Want me to introduce you?”

 

“Nah. I’m not into gorgeous, smart, successful straight guys. OF COURSE!” They embark on their quest to get Daphne laid.

 

Why did I agree to come again? I fucking hate parties. Especially ones like this where it’s nearly impossible to distinguish the fags from the breeders. It's led to a few dicey situations. Welcome to my metrosexual hell. But Jared is becoming a really good friend, so I was compelled to support him on his very first Broadway opening night. O.k., Off Broadway. Way off Broadway. Still, it’s a big deal for him. I grab two beers and chug the first one before cracking the second. It’s not going to be enough. I’m doing everything I can to distract myself from yet again rehashing last night’s conversation with Daphne in my head, from dealing with the fallout. Jared’s smoking a joint so I dash over to join him. His brother is a pharmacist and gets all kinds of great shit. Brian will be thrilled next time…fuck. Trying not to think about Brian, remember? Yeah, the joint’s not going to cut it either.

 

“Got anything else?”

 

“Always. What do you want?”

 

“I don’t know. E?”

 

“Here you go. This is potent though. Go easy.”

 

“I’m not some recreational drug virgin, you know. I’ve been primed by the master.” I take it and step up my efforts to erase all thought from my brain. Finding a hidden corner, I plant myself and watch the festivities. Daphne’s in full flirtation mode, giggling and twirling her hair with her fingers. I grab two more beers, make quick work of them, and duck into the kitchen to find something stronger. Pain Management 101. You taught me well, Brian. Stop! Oh, shit. I told him I’d call this weekend. But Daphne’s words have haunted me all fucking day, and I’m entirely confounded by the whole mess. I need to figure it out myself before I can discuss it with him. But if we talk, he’ll without a doubt perceive the distress in my voice. I’m no Brando in the acting department. I’m not even a Jared.

 

The clock on the wall catches my eye. Perfect! I’ll call now and leave him a message. Coward. I pull out my cell and press 1, waiting for the machine.

 

“Hey, Sunshine.” FUCK!

 

“Hi! You’re home.” I slur with great surprise.

 

“You didn’t think I would be?”

 

“At 12:30 on a Saturday night? No, the news of hell freezing over hasn’t reached here yet.”

 

“So why did you call?”

 

This is exactly why you should never make phone calls when you’re drunk. Or high. Or especially when you’re both. “If I have to tell you, I’m not going to tell you.” I croon. Ha! Dodged that bullet.

 

Amused, he snorts, “What the fuck are you on?” Then again, perhaps the bullet wasn’t dodged so well after all.

 

I start to giggle and sing, “Sing with me…A B C D E E Eeeeeeee!”

 

“You sound really tweaked. Who’s with you?”

 

“I’m at Jared’s opening night extravaganza,” I drawl dramatically.

 

“Oh, right. How was it?”

 

“It was…um…Jared was good. But I think he might be on the audition circuit again pretty soon. Hope it doesn’t short circuit!” I crack myself up.

 

“What? That doesn’t even make…Justin...JUSTIN?”

 

I can’t speak due to the uncontrollable laughter pouring out of me. Then, as abruptly as the laughter began the brakes slam, and the torment I’ve been evading returns with a vengeance.

 

“Did you really?” I ask, my voice wavering and unquestionably pathetic.

 

“Did I really what?”

 

“You know, look at me like that.”

 

His amusement swiftly subsides. “I have no fucking idea what you’re talking about. Is Jared as fucked up as you are?”

 

“Nobody’s as fucked up as I am. Nobody ever in the history of the whole entire world,” I wail pitifully, my inner drama princess in full swing. 

 

“O.k. You’re really freaking me out. I’m about five seconds away from jumping in the car and driving out there.”

 

Bordering on hysterical, capturing the attention of half the room, I shout, “Why aren’t you out? It’s fucking Saturday night. You’re supposed to be out fucking every hot guy in Pittsburgh. That’s why…it’s the whole fucking reason…I can’t let you…WHY THE FUCK AREN’T YOU FUCKING SOMEBODY? TWO SOMEBODIES? A FUCKING DOZEN SOMEBODIES!!!!!” 

 

A very calm but firm tone emerges, like when you speak to a misbehaving toddler. “Justin, can I speak with Jared?”

 

“He’s busy trying to get Daphne hooked up so she can fuck somebody, LIKE YOU SHOULD BE!”

 

“Daphne’s there? Get her on the phone.”

 

“She’s otherwise engaged, plying her womanly wiles on poor unsuspecting…”  
  
Still firm and calm, but much louder now, he demands, “Get her on the fucking phone. Now.”

 

“Yes sir, Mr. Kinney, sir. Christ.”

 

I hunt down Daphne in the next room and try to hand her the phone. She looks at me, puzzled. I shove it at her again. “His majesty requires an audience with you, milady.” I bow with a flourish of my arm.

 

I listen to the one sided conversation.

 

“Hello?”

 

“Yeah, he’s pretty far gone,” To me, she asks, “Did you get the E from Jared?” I nod.

 

“It’s from a safe source, so it’s not bad shit or anything if that’s what you’re worried about. It’s just strong I guess. Ugh! And unless he bathed in a whiskey spring, I’d venture to guess he’s had quite a bit to drink too.”

 

“What he meant by what?”

 

“Oh. Yeah, it’s just that, well, we had a…uh…kind of emotional discussion last night. He’s a little upset.”

 

“O.k. He’s more than a little upset. He’s closer to full out crisis mode.” I give her a death stare and lunge for the phone, but I miss and fall. She gets the not so subtle hint, though, and clumsily tries to cover. “I’m sure he’ll talk to you about it…eventually.”

 

“Me? No. Just two beers.”

 

“I will. I promise. I’m crashing at his place tonight anyway. Here you go.”

 

She hands the phone back to me. “What did she promise?” I snap into the phone. “What did you promise?” I bark at her.

 

“That she’d hold your widdle itty bitty tweaked out hand.” Then his acerbic tone returns to dead serious. “Be careful. Try not to do anything, or anyone incredibly stupid. You’re too stoned to think straight.”

 

“I neverthink _straight_.”

 

He’s too alarmed to even acknowledge the joke. “Just be careful. Do me a favor, stick close to Daphne.”

 

“I don’t need a fucking babysitter. I can take care of myself. Later,” I spit venomously.

 

“Yeah, I can tell. Later.” He sounds hesitant to hang up, but he doesn’t have much choice.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

I didn’t think it was possible to feel worse than I did when I woke up from the coma, but now I’m doubting that belief. Every cell in my body aches. If my goal was to experience the physical equivalent of my emotional pain, I succeeded brilliantly. I pick up my cell phone to see what time it is and notice I have new voicemails. All Brian.

 

In the first one, he teases good-naturedly, “Good morning, Sunshine. Although I’m sure it’s anything but for you. Call me when you rejoin the world.”

 

The next one is a little less jovial. “Hey, Sleeping Beauty. You’ve already missed the entire morning. I’m sure you have a woody that’s screaming for attention. Call me. We can attend to it together.” Panicking, I look down. Whew. Nope. That could be awkward, with Daphne right here and all. Absolutely no plans to go there again, thank you very much!

 

By the third one, he’s a healthy combination of worried and pissed. “How many times do I have to tell you that the point of having a cell phone is to leave it on? Especially when you refuse to get a land line. Fucking call me.”

 

I don’t want to talk to him. I really, really don’t. But if I ignore these, it’ll just be worse when I finally do. Biting the bullet, I silently sneak into the bathroom and press 1.

 

He picks up, but before he can utter a sound, I inform him, “I’ll warn you, if you speak in anything louder than a whisper, I’m going to have to hang up.”

 

“Not surprising.” He says softly. “How are you?”

 

“As if you have to ask.”

 

“I just wanted to check that there was nothing more than normal morning after misery.”

 

“Nothing more. It’s just magnified about a million times.”

 

“Let me know when you’re lucid and unencumbered by the residue of your self-destruction. I want to decode your gibberish from last night.”

 

“You should talk. Where do you think I learned the fine art of self-destruction?” Shit. Shit, shit, shit. I’m not ready for this. Certainly not in this condition. “Anyway, I was stoned out of my mind last night. You know better than to pay attention to my rambling in that state. I don’t remember what the fuck I said, but it was probably a load of nonsensical crap.” Of course we both know I’m more truthful in that state than any other time, but I’m praying he’ll let it go.

 

“If you say so. You know what? Make yourself your Grandma’s recipe shit you tried to force on me. See how you like it.”

 

Thank god. “I’m thinking, no. I need to lay back down. I’ll talk to you later.”

 

“Later.”

 

How did this happen so quickly? Just last week I was happily bouncing around Toronto, surrounded by people I love, gratified that my relationship with Brian is firmly entrenched in that place of comfort you can only reach by being with someone forever and a day. Not the comfort that’s boring, complacent, the kind he’s always bitching to everyone about. But the kind that’s immensely satisfying, the kind that let’s you know you’re where you belong. A mere seven days later I feel like my world is falling apart.

 

But it didn’t happen quickly, I correct myself. Daphne didn’t open Pandora’s box. It was already ajar, ever since that visit home when I shut out all the “shouldn’t”s I didn’t want to cope with. She just tried to stop me from fighting so hard to close the lid again. Why the fuck couldn’t the stupid Pandora’s box be a Genie’s bottle instead? I wouldn’t even be greedy. I don’t need three wishes, just one. Just one.


	10. 10 - Shattered

**Justin’s POV**

The therapeutic nature of creating loses something when you mix in deadlines. Gregory’s good, I’ll give him that. But he’s overextending me with his promises. Several of my pieces have sold from the scattered galleries that are carrying them, which is exciting, but they all want replacements. And now he got me a show. It’s another multi-artist showcase, smaller and less exalted than Fabre’s, but nothing to sneeze at either. They want quite a few pieces, and if I can provide a really large canvass they like, they may use it as the signature piece. I know, it's all good, but I’m not a fucking assembly line. Of course, I’m the one who always contends the best art is born out of deep emotion, and lord knows I’ve got that to spare these days. I should be cranking them out as abundantly as Brian does cynical philosophies of life (It always comes back to Brian with me, doesn’t it?).  

Daphne bops in, determined to have a last hurrah tonight. Her classes start tomorrow and from what she’s heard she won’t be coming up for air anytime soon. Seeing my lack of progress since her previous visit to the studio, her giddy expression falters. “O.k. Spill it. What’s going on with you?” 

 

“Nothing. I have a shitload of work to do, and it all has to be genius.”

 

“Are you sure? I thought it might have something to do with Bri…”

 

“Don’t start.”

 

“I’m not starting anything. I’m just worried about you. You’re not acting like yourself. You haven’t been since the night I got to New York, which coincidentally was the night we had our little…conversation.”

 

“It’s just this crap with the galleries and the show. Creating when you want to, when you’re inspired to isn’t even work. It’s spontaneous and instinctual, cathartic. Being forced to do it with an hourglass in your face and hoards of hovering expectations isn’t just difficult, it’s counterproductive to delivering anything worth a shit.”

 

Every time she forces this issue I tell her to fuck off. But she’s pretty thick skinned, and perpetual worry precludes her letting it go. “Justin, it’s not like you to wallow. You may push back, maybe even have a meltdown, but once you get that out of your system you promptly get down to the work of dealing with things. And when you reach that stage, you’re pretty fucking unstoppable. I’ve never seen you trapped in limbo like this. Why can’t you figure out what you want?”

 

“I **know** what I want,” I bite back. Then, in a self-pitying whine I add, “I just can’t have it.”

 

“This is what I’m talking about. You’re not yourself. If you know what you want, go get it. The idea that you can’t have it never dissuaded you before. Where the fuck has Justin Taylor gone?” 

 

“I grew up and figured out that it’s not all about what _I_ want. Not when getting it would hurt the person I love more than anything.”

 

“And you’re soooo sure that…”

 

Perfect timing! Alex mopes down the hall, bless him, and leans against the door jam. “Hi, guys. Are you ready? Let’s go get smashed.”

 

“You look like you need it,” I observe.

 

“Just having a bad day.”

 

“Isn’t Roy coming?” Daphne inquires.

 

“We just broke up.”

 

“Oh, I’m sorry.” She gives him a hug. “Him or you?”

 

“Me. But it got kind of nasty.” He glances at me quickly, then looks away, fidgeting. “I had to, though. It was no secret to either of us that he isn’t the guy I want to be with.” Daphne clears her throat and shifts in her seat.

 

“Sounds like we all could use alcoholic intervention. Maybe even a little something extra. Shall I call Jared?” 

 

“Haven’t you been doing an awful lot of that lately?” Daphne presses.

 

“Didn’t know you were keeping a log, Mom.”

 

Just then my phone rings. Brian. Of course. Why not? Since the universe apparently has a remarkable sense of humor. I hold up a finger letting them know I’ll just be a minute. Flipping the phone open, I say, “Hey there, stranger!”

 

“I haven’t been any more scarce than you have, Mr. In Demand. Anyway, this shit I’m working on is big. If I get this new client I’m courting, it’s going to take Kinnetik to a whole new level. I won’t just have the leading ad agency in Pittsburgh, I’ll be a real force on the national landscape.”

 

“You’ll get it. You always do.”

 

“I don’t know. There’s not a fag in the bunch. Not even a closet fairy or dabbling hetero. I can’t fuck my way into this one.”

 

“Please. You’re brilliant. You don’t need your dick to get you this account. It didn’t help you steal Remson from Vangard.”

 

“No. A kick in the ass from some twink did that.”

 

“The kick in the ass might have convinced you to go for it, but the concept was all yours. Cut out the modesty crap. It’s disingenuous coming from you. You’re just fishing for me to stroke your ego.”

 

“Unfortunately it’s all you can stroke over the phone. Are you going to be home tonight? We can settle for the next best thing over the web cam.”

 

“Not tonight. Daph’s classes start tomorrow, Alex just broke up with Roy, and I’m royally stressed out, so we’re on a mission to get thoroughly wasted. Actually, they’re both here waiting for me, so I’ve got to go. I’ll talk to you later.”

 

“O.k. Waste away. Just be careful.”

 

Remembering his admonishment to me once, I tease, “Since when did you become a Jewish mother…or Michael?” 

 

“Shut the fuck up. Later.”

 

I put the phone back in my pocket, for a moment pondering everything I’m trying to juggle: the futile Brian predicament, Daphne’s relentlessness, the demands of my budding career, Alex and his impossibly hot entreating eyes. So much to evade, so little time.

 

I head out the door, inviting Daphne and Alex to follow. “Oblivion, anyone?”

 

*****************************

**Brian’s POV**   

My unbridled enthusiasm has dampened considerably over the past half hour. The first thing I did when I got the word I’d been awarded the Bally Total Fitness account was call Justin. Despite his assertion, it wasn’t false modesty when I expressed doubt about landing this. Down deep this was bigger than even I gave myself credit for. Not him, though. His unfailing confidence in me could be so empowering, but at times it was daunting, making me feel like I had to be Rage, some superhuman superhero who could accomplish the impossible. On the plus side, it pushes me, wanting nothing so much as to be that for him. At the same time, the pressure can be overwhelming. 

 

He was appropriately elated and proud, but as I hung up all I could think was “here we go.” I knew it was coming. I predicted it from the day he left. Not to mention it’s what I told him to do. Adamantly. In fact, I’m surprised it took this long. After all, he’s been there almost six months already. Alex’s name is creeping into our conversations more and more: Alex and I went…Alex says…Alex thinks. They share their art, seem to like to do the same things, and let’s face it, I met him -- the guy is fucking hot. Relax, I try to tell myself. He hasn’t said a single thing that indicates there’s anything going on. You do that about friends sometimes. Mikey talks about me incessantly. Shit. Bad example.

 

I need to go out. Head to Babylon. Have myself a drink, a bump, a hot ass. Maybe I can get Mrs. Novotny-Bruckner to venture outside after dark.

 

“Mikey, put on your dancin’ shoes and meet me at Babylon.”

 

“I can’t. We rented a couple of movies and made some popcorn. Why don’t you come over and watch with us?”

 

“I’m sorry. My phone must not be working. It sounded like you want me to step into your fucking Norman Rockwell painting, snack on carbs at this time of night, and watch…what? Some animated Disney flick?”

 

“No! We got…”

 

“Never mind. Go enjoy your pathetic little Family Night.”

 

Fuck. Fine, I’ll just go myself. Theodore’s probably there. He’s usually there at some point, taking care of some paperwork or dancing with Blake. Not that the Sober Sisters are much fun. Forget it. The plan has lost its luster. Instead I log onto the computer, hooking up with a promising stud (if his picture is accurate). He’s at my door in less than a half hour, thankfully living up to his hype. 

 

“Bedroom’s through there.” I point in the general direction.

 

“Yeah. I know.”

 

“Excuse me?”

 

“I’ve been here before. A couple of years ago. We had a threesome with a hot little blonde twink. You guys seemed pretty tight.” He laughs at his own innuendo. “Is he going to join us?”

 

O.k. It throws me. Hiding it, I say, “Well then, sorry.” I turn around and open the door back up.

 

“What?”

 

“You have to go.”

 

“You’re not serious.”

 

“As a drag queen at a Manolo Blahnik give away. See, I’ve already had you. Not to mention I didn’t remember it, which doesn’t exactly tempt me to go back for seconds.” I motion for him to take a hike.

 

“Fuck you.”

 

“Not tonight, dear.”

 

What the fuck? I never, NEVER forget a trick! I have a veritable database in my brain of every fag in town. Dick length and girth. Oral talent. Tightness factor. All the bottoms who claim to be tops. All the tops who’ll bottom for just the right cock. I could write a fucking book. Hmmm. Not a bad idea, actually. A Who’s Who of Queer Pittsburgh. Bet it would fly off the shelves.

 

Back to the computer. Before I can continue my hunt for tonight’s fuck, I notice a new email. Justin. He’s sent me some photos from his show. I felt like shit missing it, but I had meetings in Chicago -- one with Leo Brown and one to nail the Bally account, so it was unavoidable. In fact, all the commitments of our respective careers have been kicking our collective asses so badly I haven’t been able to get there at all in the two months since we got back from Toronto. I click through them, impressed as always with his latest work. Some of the new multimedia stuff was exhibited, and even in a photo it’s magnificent. Kid’s a fucking genius. At the end there’s one of him in front of the gallery with a couple of friends. Daphne, Jessica, Tony, Jared, and Alex. I zoom in for a better view. They’re all looking at the camera, grinning wildly or making goofy faces. Except Alex. He’s leering sideways at Justin like an Atkins dieter looks at an all-you-can-eat pasta bar.

 

Suddenly I feel an urgent need to see him. Fuck him. Claim him. Remind him. This is bullshit. I had to let him believe he was tying my hands (and not in the good way), didn’t I? What the fuck was I thinking? I log onto my calendar and find a relatively light day I can clear late next week. Then I click over to www.libertyairlines.com.

  

****************************************************************

**Justin’s POV**   

I look down at my ringing cell phone to see Brian’s name. “If it isn’t the illusive Brian Kinney.”

 

“Like you’re so readily available. Hey, how’d you like to have lunch with a startling handsome man?”

 

“You’re HERE?”

 

“I’m here. It was last minute. I have a client who demanded my presence at a meeting. Can you break away for a little while?”

 

“Of course. Where are you?”

 

“Why don’t you just meet me at the hotel. I think you know which one,” he says seductively.

 

 “O.k. But, uh, can we meet downstairs at the coffee shop? I really would like lunch. I haven’t eaten yet and I’m starting to feel a little shaky.”

 

“The idea was to make you feel very, very shaky. But sure, I’ll meet you down there if you need to eat first.”

 

I walk into the coffee shop and my eyes snap right to him like a heat seeking missile. Looking at him across the room, I feel the same bolt of lightning I did that very first night. There’s something about you, Brian Kinney.

 

He turns and sees me, a smile percolating. “It’s about fucking time.” When he reaches me, he wraps me in his arms, then pulls back to give me a kiss. I kiss him back, but keep my mouth intentionally closed. He leans back, arms still around me, and gives me a questioning look. “You all right?”

 

“I’m fine. Better than fine. It’s really good to see you.” But my voice doesn’t match my words.

 

“Maybe we do need to get some food into you. Even if it is this greasy diner fare. What the fuck. We’ll work it off later.” He wiggles his eyebrows at me and brushes my hair back, sinking his fingers in with that deadly one two punch, love and lust. It’s more than I can take, and I decide I can’t wait any longer. Like pulling off a Band-Aid, I just need to do it quickly. This is what’s best for both of us, I remind myself. 

 

“I can’t…go upstairs.”

 

“Did they ban us from the hotel after all the noise we made last time?”

 

I smile weakly. Then I take a deep breath plunge the knife in, “No. Alex and I, we’re together.”

 

“I see.” His arms drop, his expression betraying some fierce internal battle. But after a pause, he just purses his lips together in that way that makes him look so childlike and vulnerable. “Good for you. I hope he makes you happy.” 

 

His blatant sincerity only makes this harder. “I want you to know I haven’t been hiding anything. We’ve been friends. That’s all. This just happened the night before last. I've been trying to get a hold of you, to tell you. I’m sorr…”

 

“Don’t be a twat. What the fuck are you apologizing for? We agreed that you should come here and go after what you want. _Everything_ you want. That’s exactly what you’re doing.”

 

We stand there, a horribly uncomfortable silence between us. I have to break it, so I say the only thing I can think of. “Should we sit down and have lunch?”

 

He clears his throat. “I would, but I got a call while I was waiting for you. My client moved the meeting up, so I have to run.”

 

“How about afterwards?”

 

“Since the meeting’s so early now, I’ll probably just fly back home tonight.” Then, with phony enthusiasm, he chirps, “I’ll talk to you soon.” He pulls me in for an embrace that feels frighteningly like goodbye. Kissing the top of my head, he says with a catch in his voice, “Take care of yourself.” Then he rushes out. I can see him through the window pinching the bridge of his nose, jumping into a cab. Suddenly it feels like somebody just handed me a 1,000 pound weight.

 

I head back to my studio as my mind travels to Alex’s apartment two nights ago, when I finally gave in to what I’d been resisting for months.

 

We’d spent the day roller blading in Central Park. We’d been spending a lot of days together lately. And as always, we had a great time. Laughing, people watching, passionately discussing art and politics. He’s so easy to be with. I can’t even recall a single argument. Furthermore, there’s something so liberating being with somebody who’s only known me as an adult, whose view of me isn’t tempered by the naïve seventeen year old twink they first met. I don’t just mean Brian either. Debbie, Michael, Emmet, Ted…everyone. I feel more like a grown man when I’m with him.

 

We went back to his apartment and made dinner. I’d been teaching him how to cook, and he was a fairly decent pupil. After dinner, we sat down to watch a Connor James movie he’d insisted we rent (I’d filled him in on my dalliances in L.A.). Watching a sweaty, shirtless Connor on screen rekindled my memory (the man was amazing in bed), and my pants began to feel a little snug. I cleared my throat and shifted a bit, but turned to Alex when I felt a hand glide up my thigh. His eyes revealed that this was precisely why he demanded we rent one of Connor’s films.

 

He leaned in slowly and initiated a tentative kiss. When I didn’t push him away or jump up and run, he leaned in further and his tongue gently parted my lips, delicately entering my mouth. Gradually, the pressure increased and his hand caressed my face, pulling me closer to him. Damn. He’s a good kisser. A really good kisser. As I relented and returned his kiss, I felt his mouth curl into a smile against mine, his body relaxing in relief. “I was hoping I’d get that reaction.” He laughed against my lips. We kissed again as his hand slid inside my shirt, finding my hardening nipples and teasing them with his thumb. I pulled my shirt over my head, and as his mouth found my chest, my stomach. I pulled his off as well, running my hands over the taught muscles moving beneath his dark, smooth skin, and gasped as he opened my fly, his fingers wrapping around my firm cock. Maneuvering into position so that his crotch was conveniently at my face, he pushed my pants lower and licked the inside of my thigh, my balls, and took me into his mouth. I returned the favor, finally handling what I’d only admired from afar so many times. As I brought him to his climax, he buried his face against my leg, biting down as he released, my own twitching cock left unattended. But within moments he resumed taking me to my own conclusion. It reminded me of why Brian and I rarely 69ed. He could never focus on anything else while I was blowing him. Jesus Christ. Even with Alex’s lips around my dick I couldn’t keep Brian out of my head. (“ _No matter who you're ever with, I'll always be there._ ” The fucker cursed me.) 

 

“Holy Mary, mother of god,” he exclaimed breathlessly. “If I’d have known how good at that you are, I would have jumped you months ago.”

 

“Painting isn’t my only talent,” I replied playfully. He took my hand, leading me to the bedroom, and I stayed the night. He was a talented and attentive lover, not to mention willingly versatile. And as I predicted to Daphne, it was so much more than just a fuck.

 

I woke before he did, astonished at how happy and miserable it’s possible to be in the same exact moment. The impulse to flee was mitigated by Daphne’s words repeating in my head: “ _You let each other go so you could both be happy. So go be happy. Otherwise, what was the point?_ ”

 

When he finally stirred, his dazzling smile matching mine, he kissed me sleepily and nuzzled close. Sighing, I tiptoed into it. “Last night was amazing.”

 

“Mmmm hmmm,” he hummed against my chest.

 

“But…”

 

“But?”

 

“I don’t know if I’m ready to be in a relationship.”

 

He looked up at me in earnest, contending, “Justin, in case you haven’t noticed, we’ve been in one for weeks. You just held out longer than any fag in the history of homo dating.”

 

I laughed, realizing he was right.

 

My mental visit to the recent past screeches to a halt as a distressing thought crashes in. I pull out my cell and dial.

 

“Ted? Hi, it’s Justin.”

 

“Hey there, Sunshine!” Then he says, fishing, “Having a good day?”

 

“I know Brian’s here, so you don’t have to worry about spoiling the surprise.”

 

“You two having fun?” he asks suggestively.

 

I cut to the chase. “Ted, I need you to tell me the truth.”

 

“Of course.”

 

“Does Brian really have a client meeting here?”

 

Dead air.

 

“Ted?”

 

“Justin,” he stammers. “He’d kill me…”

 

“Never mind. I shouldn’t have asked you to betray a confidence.”

 

I hang up, and my heart shatters into a million pieces. 


	11. 11 - Old Times

  
Author's notes:

Get your hankies out for this one...

* * *

**Michael’s POV**  

When we’re 90, I’ll probably still be doing this. Just like old times, dragging a barely conscious Brian home after a night of debauchery and self-destruction. I’m glad I called Ben from the car and told him I needed to stay here tonight. Brian’s worse off than usual, having a harder time walking and talking than in his typical stupor, and I’m afraid to leave him alone. I have horrible visions of scarves and rafters. Ben didn’t give me a moment’s trouble about it. Just sweetly told me what a good friend I am and that he loves me. Am I the luckiest guy in the world or what?  

“Are you trying to take advantage of me, Mikey?” he garbles as I yank his shirt over his head.

 

“You bet. So help me get these clothes off you.” I finish removing his shirt while he undoes his pants and slides them as far as his knees. I complete the removal, then turn to get him some water and aspirin.

 

“Stay with me,” he urges, grabbing my hand theatrically and pulling my arm to him, hugging it, forcing me to abandon the idea of preventive measures.

 

I kick off my shoes and climb onto the bed. He winds my arms around him, curling into me until I’m spooning him. Oh, boy. He only does this when he’s in the very pit of despair. Usually it’s somehow connected to his dad, but Ted told me this morning he flew to New York to surprise Justin. When he turned up at the house tonight already three quarters of the way to trashed to drag me out, I knew it meant trouble. “I’m not leaving.”

 

“I told you _he_ would, though, didn’t I?”

 

Not again! I thought the two of them had settled on some sort of long distance arrangement. “He didn’t leave you. He went to New York to pursue his career, with a huge shove in the back by you if I’m not mistaken.”

 

“I had to. If he knew, he wouldn’t have gone.”

 

“I thought you just said you didn’t want him to go.”

 

“I didn’t! But he had to. And he wouldn’t have if he knew.” He’s annoyed I’m not following, but come on. He’s got to help me out a little, even if he is polluted. 

 

“If he knew what?”

 

“About the face,” he spits, as if it’s obvious.

 

I know he’s going to be pissed I can’t read his severely compromised mind, but I’m so fucking lost. I feel like I’m jumping into the middle of a conversation that started an hour ago. “What face?”

 

“MY face. Shit, Mikey. Keep up.”

 

Trying again, I ask, “What about your face? Brian, how about you try starting from the beginning.”

 

He sighs heavily, and then indulges me. “When I proposed and he said yes, he saw the expression on my face and interpreted it as me having second thoughts already. I told him I didn’t, not one. And it was the truth. But I didn’t tell him the whole thing. I didn’t tell him that I…” His own train of though makes him angry with himself, and he cuts himself off. “I should have, but I didn’t. I never fucking do. Why didn’t I tell him?” he mourns.

 

Finally, when it seems he just zoned out from the E and Beam, I question, “Why didn’t you tell him what?” I do have to note that I’m always in complete awe of how articulate he can be, even four seconds away from substance induced unconsciousness.

 

“That when he said yes…” He presses his face into the pillow.

 

“What?” 

 

Again, he’s quiet for a while. I can’t tell if he changed his mind about telling me or if he’s working up to saying whatever it is out loud, or if he’s just passed out.

 

“Tell me.” I murmur softly into his ear, kissing him tenderly on back of the head, smoothing down his hair with my hand.

 

Suddenly spilling out like whiskey from a tipped bottle of Beam, he professes, “I expected to. You know? Have second thoughts. I really thought I’d panic, or feel trapped, or dread. Some fucking awful thing. I waited for it. Except it never came. Instead…” He breaks for a few ruffled breaths. “…it made me so fucking happy, Mikey. I didn’t know…”

 

It’s becoming clear my job here seems to be kick starting his periodically stalled soliloquy. “Didn’t know what?”

 

“I didn’t know…” He starts shaking, I think from furiously swallowing sobs. “I didn’t know that it was even fucking possible to be that happy.” He sniffs a few times, then pulls himself together. “Jesus Christ. The little shit has completely turned me into a lesbian.”

 

I'm a little relieved. At least the real Brian Kinney has returned. “You’re not a lesbian.” 

 

“No? Well, a woman then. In general.”

 

“You’re not a woman. You’re in love.”

 

“Same thing.”

 

“It is not.”

 

He twists his head toward me, and I see his eyes, all glassy and pink. I’m guessing he wants me to believe it’s from the drugs and the booze. “You said you didn’t believe I would ever really go through with it, but I would have. I tried like hell to give him everything he said he wanted.”

 

“You did. You gave him more than that.”

 

“But then he told me I wasn’t being me, that as the wedding got closer the person he knew was disappearing. And he thought it was all just to make him happy. Which, o.k., is how it started. 'Cause after I knew he was all right, after the bomb, I would have done fucking anything for him. But when we started planning the wedding and talking about being married, I kind of…” He stops. Again. Abandoning the prompting, I just let him take his time. Finally, so low I can barely hear him, he reluctantly admits, “I actually sort of got into the idea.”

 

Huh? Wow. That I didn’t expect. “Did you tell him?”

 

With enough melodrama to make Liza proud, he drones, “What’s the point? It wouldn’t matter. When I’m the person he first met, the person he supposedly fell in love with, he doesn’t want me because I fuck around. When I try to be the person he says he wants, who’ll just be with him, he doesn’t want me because he says it’s not me. It’s like some sick fucking riddle. The bottom line, I guess, is that he doesn't want me.” He likes to call me pathetic? I should take a picture, because his face right now is the absolute definition of the word. “Anyway, he’s better off. Now he’s got _Alice_ ,” the name wafting out with the sound of malice.

 

“Alice?!” I can’t hide my shock. “Do NOT tell me Justin’s gone straight.” He did fuck Daphne, I remember.

 

“Don’t be a twat, Mikey.” 

 

Whew! I didn’t think so. “Oh, I get it. Like Alice Cooper or something.”

 

“Or something,” he mumbles. “My head is fucking killing me…” he grumbles, pinching the bridge of his nose and waving his arm toward the side of the bed. I sit up and open the nightstand drawer to find his pills, like he needs any more pharmaceuticals right now, and I see it. Is it…? Hesitantly, I retrieve it, snapping it open, my heart dropping to the floor. Their rings. He kept the rings? I remove the smaller one, matted with fingerprints, evidently handled…a lot. Rolling it in my fingers I see the inscription, and it just plain knocks the wind right out of me. I get it, that Brian loves him. And yes, I knew a long time ago. Probably, like he said, before anyone else. But I thought he loved him in an emotionally crippled this-is-the-closest-thing-to-romantic-love-Brian-Kinney-can-manage sort of way, because I’ve always presumed that was the most he had to offer. Until this moment I don’t think I really, _really_ got it. I always placated myself with the belief I was better off with Brian as my best friend because I need so much more in a life partner than he’s capable of giving, that Justin should consider himself lucky he got so much as an “I love you” out of him after all that time. I was so stupid. I never really knew him at all. 

 

Silent tears drip from my eyes as I read it over and over again, running my finger along the inside of the ring, trying to feel any rough edges the words spawn. Nothing. It’s perfectly smooth, like the words were born in the metal when it was forged, an integral part of it from its origin. _For my prince._

 

He’s passed out, and it’s just as well. There are no pills strong enough for this pain.

  

*************************

 

**Justin’s POV**

 

I flip the phone shut with a discouraged snap.

 

“Machine again?” Alex asks sympathetically, slinking his arms around my waist from behind, his chin resting on my shoulder. I nod. “He still won’t respond, huh?”

 

“Nope. Not to my emails either. Cynthia and Ted can’t even get him to come to the phone for me.”

 

“Maybe he just needs a little time. It’s only been a couple of days.”

 

“Yeah. Maybe.” But the boulder in the pit of my stomach says differently. Sighing, I turn into his embrace, taking comfort against his broad chest, his thick arms.

 

With a lingering kiss he offers, “Why don’t we go over to Washington Square Park and sketch. Get your mind off of him.”

 

As always when I draw, I begin to feel the tension dissipate a bit. It's my safe haven. Then a cute, mop haired boy stands across from us, opens his case, tosses two dollars in for show, and starts playing the violin. Pretty well, too. I can’t help but let out a defeated chortle.

 

“Look, I said we could get your mind off of Brian. I made no promises about Ethan.” 

 

“It doesn’t matter. Ethan means nothing to me, except a reminder of one of the biggest mistakes of my life.”

 

“Don’t think of it that way. At the time, you needed to explore what else was out there. And Brian wasn’t giving you an inch.” We both crack up before I can even suggest the obligatory comeback. “Seriously, I mean, you were what…18, 19? You learned a lot from that experience. It’s a part of growing up. It’s part of who you are now.”

 

“No apologies, no regrets,” I recite.

 

“Exactly. And didn’t you tell me that in the end it took your relationship with Brian to the next level?” I nod, conceding. It amazes me that in the few months I’ve know him we’ve gotten close enough to be so well versed in even the most intimate details of each others’ lives.

 

We both watch the musician, bow impressively flying across the strings. Alex smirks, “It’s hard to believe that with his exceptional fingering skills, Ethan wasn’t a virtuoso in bed.”

 

“I know, right? But if I was determined to prove that there was more to a relationship than sex, Ethan was definitely the man for the job. Or should I say he wasn’t the man for any job. Hand job, blow job, rim job...”

 

He cringes. “Oooh. You said he was bad, but that bad?”

 

“Worse. There were instances I really envied women for being able to fake it. Half the time I had to close my eyes and imagine I was…” I trail off, realizing what I’d just revealed.

 

“With Brian?” he finishes. 

 

I stand up, lay my sketch pad down, and straddle his lap. Facing him, I place my knees on the bench, my arms around his neck, my hips grinding against him, I whisper in his ear, “You are the man for any job, and then some.” His mouth smiles, but his eyes don’t. “Why don’t we go back to my apartment so I can conduct a proper interview?” I kiss his neck, nibbling, trying my damndest to be seductive. 

 

Gently sliding out from under me, he claims, “You don’t have to do this.”

 

“What?”

 

“Justin, you’ve regaled me with enough Brian-is-the-fuck-of-a-lifetime stories and shown me enough issues of Rage to know that nobody will ever live up to him for you. Not in bed or anywhere else. Hell, even I’ve jerked off thinking about some of that shit.” I can’t help letting a slight grin grow. “Like I just said about Ethan, everything you’ve had, that you have now with him is a part of who you are. If I’m going to be with you, it all comes as part of the package.” Before I can jump in with a remark on the innuendo, he stops me, “Don’t say it.”

 

Instead I tell him, “You sound like Ben.”

 

“Ben sounds like an exceptional man,” he replies, a twinkle in his eye.

 

“I should have known right away. Who the fuck says ‘vibe?’”

 

He punches me playfully.“We have a great relationship, one that means a lot to me whether it includes fucking or not. You know I’d like it to be more. I really think we’d be incredible together. But not if I have to cajole or manipulate you into it. I want to be with somebody who really wants to be with me.” I think I can relate. “I’d just appreciate it if you’d decide before I fall hopelessly in love with you.”

 

“Fair enough. But try to pace yourself. I’m pretty fucking irresistible.” I tweak his nipple through his shirt, then jump up and run. He chases after me, both of us laughing unreservedly. 

 

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

“What did you think about the drawings I sent?” I ask when Michael answers the phone.

 

“They’re fine,” he snips back.

 

“Fine? What’s wrong with them?”

 

“Nothing. There’s nothing wrong with them. I don’t want to do this now, o.k.?”

 

The sound of his voice alarms me. “Is something wrong? Is Ben o.k.? Hunter? Your mom?”

 

“They’re all fine. Everyone’s fine.”

 

Enough with the “fine” thing. “Then what? I can tell something’s up.”

 

“It’s none of your concern.”

 

“Ah, Brian,” I say, understanding. Brian must have told him about Alex. “How bad is he?”

 

“Don’t worry about it, Justin. Forget about Brian, and me. All of us for that matter. Go live your fucking fancy New York life with Alice. Don’t give a thought to all the little people who knew you when.”

 

He’s obviously very upset, so I try not to laugh. “First of all, it’s Alex, not Alice. And are you serious? Are we really back to square one, you and me? I thought we’d gotten way past the point where I’m the meddling evil twink. I thought we were even friends in our own right.”

 

“I’m sorry. We have, we are.” He sighs deeply, his whole mood shifting. “I know how much you love him. And in general, I think he’s to blame for most of the problems in your relationship. It’s just so hard seeing him like this. Even harder now that I’ve seen how happy he can be. I want to shake some sense into the both of you.”

 

Some sense? O.k., I’m irked. “Yeah? Go for it. Tell me, what am I supposed to do? The long distance thing, being Brian’s boyfriend, his partner, but living in different cities, only seeing each other every couple of weeks, or even months? Because I’d do that. Or stay and marry him, limiting my career and myself as an artist? Because I’d do that too. The only problem is that even if I did either of those things, I’d have to watch the man I love turn himself into somebody he’d despise just to make me happy. I’d ruin his life. And that’s something I _won’t_ do.” I’m building up into a respectable queen out now, screaming, “So what kind of sense would you shake into me? Do it! Because I haven’t been able to think of a single fucking way to make this work. And I’ve tried. Believe me, I’ve done nothing BUT try. Monogamy, marriage, a house in the country…we both know that wasn’t him. I wish more than anything I had the power to fix this, but I don’t. I just don’t.”

 

His turn to go off. “The power? You really don’t get it, do you? In your relationship, the power’s all yours. It’s always been yours, since the first time you followed us to Babylon. We’d been best friends our whole lives, and I’d never once seen him show the slightest interest in someone he’d already had, let alone be even remotely jealous when it came to a trick. You wanted him to fuck you again, and you made it happen. You wanted him to want you around all the time, and he fought you tooth and nail, but you made it happen. You made the rules, all the rules, and he followed them, even when you didn’t. I think he’s still following those stupid fucking rules now. In turn he broke every one of his own rules when it came to you. You decide when to leave and when you’ll come back, and he’s always there. You made the man who’s credo was “I don’t believe in love” fall deeper than most people ever do. Most of all, you’ve said for years you want the poster boy for promiscuity to be with you and only you. And he gives it to you. He gives you everything you ask for. More than that. I mean, Jesus Christ, Justin. He fucking _proposed_. Brian! But then you tell him he’s not the person you fell in love with anymore. He’s completely at your mercy, so much so that I don’t even think he cares who knows it anymore, and he can’t win no matter what he does.”

 

“Right, Michael. I had him wrapped around my little finger. If I’m so omnipotent, how come he kept letting me leave rather than utter a few simple words to let me know he’d like me to stay? I didn’t even need ‘I love you’ those first few times. Just telling me he’d give a tiny shit if I wasn’t there would have been enough. Why didn’t I do something so that it wouldn’t have taken five fucking years and nearly dying…TWICE…to get him to own up to being in love with me. That’s some power I have!”

 

“You knew who he was from…”

 

“Day one. Don’t I know it. He told me. You told me. Your mom told me. Every fag on Liberty Avenue told me. Give me a fucking break. I was a seventeen year old virgin! What the fuck did I know about what I’d want in a relationship? Or what giving it to me would cost him? You tell me, how am I supposed to truly find happiness if it comes at the expense of his? That’s not love.”

 

“But isn’t that what you’re doing right now? He is…was happy. He loves you so much that believe it or not, Brian fucking Kinney was starting to get into the idea of being married. He wasn’t just doing it to make you happy. It made _him_ happy. _You_ made him happy.”

 

No way. He couldn’t be right, of course. I know Brian way too well. It’s ludicrous to think that he was actually looking forward to anything about getting married (except maybe the honeymoon). Right? He detests marriage. He was doing it for me. “Where’s this coming from, Michael? Is it your own little pop psychology theory? Because even if in some parallel universe that was true, he’d never admit it.”

 

“He would if he was messed up enough. And maybe it’s time for you…for all of us to consider the idea that he’s really changed. I guess even Brian has to grow up sometime. Do you know what he told me? I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but he won’t and you should know. He said that when you accepted his proposal you thought the look on his face meant he’d had second thoughts.”

 

“He told you that?”

 

“Uh huh. He also said that not only were you wrong, but that it was the total opposite. He made that face because he was overwhelmed, because it made him happier than he knew it was possible to be.”

 

“He really said that?” His words to began to haunt me, the ones I’d heard him say to Michael months ago: _Do you remember when they wanted to throw Justin out of school because of his hand? He told us he convinced the dean in part by explaining that after what happened he didn’t see things the same way. That’s what the fucking bomb did to me._ Could he really see things that differently? 

 

“I swear. Also, I found your rings in his nightstand. Did you know he kept them?”

 

“Yeah, I knew.” But in his nightstand? Where he has to look at them every day? What are you doing to yourself, Brian?

 

“Did you know about the…” he stops, apparently changing his mind about whatever he’d been about to say. 

 

“The…?”

 

“Nothing.”

 

I still couldn’t assimilate everything. “But if all this is true, why did he agree to call off the wedding? Why didn’t he just tell me?”

 

“You know the answer to that.” 

 

I did. He let me believe his changes were all for me so that I would come to New York. “I guess there are still some things about him that will never change.”

 

“You know, I really don’t think we should ever believe that about him again.” He’s probably right.


	12. 12 - Lost & Found

**Justin’s POV**

Just when I’m on a roll, the fucking phone rings. This is precisely why I usually keep the damned thing off. But Alex has an important meeting about a solo show, and he’s supposed to call to let me know how it went. Wiping the paint from my hands, I snatch it, and my heart pounds at the sight of the name on the display.

“Brian! I can’t believe you’re finally calling me back.”

“Busy, busy.” His voice is dead, flat.

“Me too. But I still found the time to leave you eight or nine thousand messages. And send a couple of hundred emails.”

“Justin…”

“Sorry. I know the Bally account is demanding. It’s just that we haven’t spoken in weeks, not since that day at the coffee shop, and we really need to…”

“Justin…”

Each time he tries to stop me, my speech becomes more rapid, anxious. I hate it, hate sounding like I’m on my fourth pot of coffee, but I can’t control myself. “You’re right, we probably shouldn’t do this over the phone. I’ll be home for Thanksgiving in about two weeks. I’m just glad you called. Did you read the reviews I sent from the last show? Kind of mixed, especially about the new multimedia stuff, but I actually prefer that. I _want_ my stuff to be controversial. Hopefully I’m striking a nerve…”

“JUSTIN!” he shouts to halt my nervous chatter. “Ben’s in the hospital. It’s pretty bad.”

“Oh my god! What happened?”

“Bad reaction to new meds.”

“Shit. Like Vic?

“Not really. It’s not his heart, and it’s not an issue of side effects. They way they explained it, it’s more like anaphylactic shock. You of all people understand the dangers inherent in severe allergic reactions.”

“Is it life threatening?”

“Potentially. If he regains consciousness, they say he’ll probably have a full recovery. But they’re not sure he will. He collapsed at the gym this morning and they rushed him here, but he’s been out the whole time. I’ve got to get back to Michael and Debbie. They don’t let you have fucking cell phones on the ward. I thought you’d want to know, so I stepped outside to call you.”

“And have a cigarette.”

“That too. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Thanks for calling,” I get in just before the click.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Walking down the corridor, I spot everyone crowded in the waiting area: Michael, Hunter, Debbie, Brian, Emmett, Ted, Blake. If I didn’t know why we were all here, I’d be really excited to see everyone. Nobody notices me come in until I place a hand on Michael’s shoulder and softly say his name. “Michael.”

He whips around, startled. “Justin? How did you…”

“Brian called. How’s he doing?”

“It’s touch and go right now. The doctor says we should know within the first 48 hours. He hasn’t woken up yet, but we’ve still got 19 hours left. And I think he squeezed my hand when I talked to him a little while ago. I just felt like he knew I was there.” His voice is wavering, struggling not to break. 

“I’m sure he did.” I hug him, and then give one to Debbie who looks pale and shaken. 

Next Emmett wraps his arms around me and whispers in my ear, “It was so sweet of you to rush here, baby.”

“Where else would I be when my family needs my support?” He smiles and kisses me on the cheek. Debbie rubs my arm in appreciation. “Ben’s been so good to me. Especially when I stayed at the house. He sat up all night with me more than once, just listening.” I glance quickly at Brian, trying to be subtle about it. Good luck with that, Taylor. “I think he’s the best listener I ever met. Has there been any change at all?” He slowly shakes his head.

Through it all, Brian just sits, watching me blankly. I take the seat next to him as his eyes remain glued to me like I’m some scientific specimen he’s observing, not saying a word. Finally looking away, he drops his head. My hand reflexively goes to his neck, rubbing the soft short hairs that live there. His eyes close, and my hand glides down, making small circles on his back which caves slightly, relaxing under my touch. His hand apprehensively slides over to my lap, covering mine, his fingers curling around it, and I slowly stroke them with my thumb. Time seems to stop, and I don’t know if we’ve been like this for a second, for minutes, for hours. All I know is I’m next to him, touching him. I’m a horrible person. Ben is down the hall fighting for his life and the bit of my skin that’s joined with Brian’s keeps creeping into my awareness, eclipsing thoughts of my ailing friend.

I feel his back tense again and he rises, clearing his throat. “I need some coffee,” he mutters, voice low and froggy. As he disappears down the hall, I get up to follow him. I check if anybody needs anything, receiving only solemn “no”s all around. But looks dart between them that leave no doubt my mission is obvious, and it’s not to grab a snack.

Turning the corner, I see him chatting with a male nurse whose hand has found his shoulder. The story of Ted coming out of his coma to a copulating Kinney springs to mind, so I hang back. Christ, Brian. Although...I can’t quite make him out well enough to place him, but something about the guy is familiar. After a distinctly hetero-guy hug, Brian walks off. I trail him, but as I approach the nurse it occurs to me who he is.

“Miguel?”

“Justin! Hey, man, check you out.” He grabs my hand to do the special handshake we developed as a part of my OT. “You look a hell of a lot better than the last time I saw you. How’s the hand? Seems to be strong.”

“Much better, thanks. It still tremors and cramps some when I use it too much, but it’s good if I’m careful.”

“And the headaches? Nightmares?”

“I still get headaches once in a while, but not that often, and they’re not as bad as they were. It took about two years until I completely stopped having the nightmares, but they’re gone now.” Let’s just leave out the little part about how I found closure.

“I couldn’t believe they let that worthless asshole off with a slap on the wrist. Makes you wonder. We live in a sick world.” Then, looking down the empty hallway it dawns on him. “Oh, right, you must be here with Brian.” I nod. “I just saw him. He said he was going for coffee, but if I know him, he went outside for a quick smoke. Sorry to hear about your friend.”

“Um, thanks.” I’m utterly confused. How the fuck does he even know Brian? Pretty well too, apparently. Daphne did say he was here the first few days I was in the coma. Guess they met then. But she also said he was practically comatose himself, and just now they looked so…chummy. Weird.

“It’s so great you two are together. You know, I wondered what would go down with you. I’ll bet he’s glad to have you with him on this side of the glass this time, right? Sure beats the hell out of sitting alone night after night.”

What would go down with us? Sitting alone? What. The. Fuck. I try desperately not to let on how completely baffled I am. “Absolutely. That was rough.”

“For both of you. I gotta tell you, man, I never understood it. I mean, why he would rip a new one on anyone who tried to make him leave, it not being visiting hours and all, watch you all night like a guard dog, all those weeks never missing a single friggin’ night, but then refusing to let you see him, hiding when you woke up, threatening us if we even hinted about letting anyone know he was here. It’s not like he wasn’t aware you were constantly asking for him. We told him all the time.” Shaking his head, he laughs, “I don’t know, man. That dude’s a tough one to figure out.” Poking his index finger into the middle of my chest, he states, “But it ain’t tough to figure out how much he loves _you_. That’s for sure.” 

Splices of memory flash like a strobe. Moments I’d jolt awake from a nightmare and think I’d seen him through the window, rationalizing that it was only my hopeful imagination or part of the dream. Little comments every now and again that made me suspicious, although I didn’t know what of. Like the first time I saw him afterwards, at the loft -- _I'm not your Occupational Therapist, I’m not your Trauma Specialist, I’m not even your god damned mother sitting there holding your hand._ If he wasn’t there, wasn’t talking to anybody about me, how was he so literate about the players in my recovery? I’d chalked it up to the fact that Brian Kinney knows just about everything -- or at least that was my absurd delusion at the time (god, I was young).

The frenetic slide show disorients me, everything spinning wildly. I’m breathing. I know I’m breathing. So why is there no air in my lungs? Miguel’s face floats in front of me, but it’s distorted, like in a funhouse mirror. And I think he’s talking, but my ears won’t work.

”Justin? Justin! Are you all right?” He grips my arm, steadying me.

Coming to enough to respond, I shake him off. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. Just worried about Ben. I’d, uh, I need to catch up with Brian. It was great to see you.”

“You too. I hope your friend comes through this o.k.”

“Thanks.” I make it around the corner before my legs give out. Sinking to the ground, my lungs still feel completely empty. Every night? Did he say every fucking night? I was here for six weeks. How could I not have known? How could none of us have known? I guess the same way none of us knew he paid for those anti-Stockwell ads until he fessed up, or about the cancer until I overheard that message. When Brian wants something kept secret… 

Some ambient sound causes me to look up just as Brian makes his way back down the hall toward me. I spring to my feet, not wanting him to see me as a huddled mass on the floor.

“Where are you going?” he asks.

“To find you.”

“I need to get back,” he insists, continuing his return, dodging any threatened alone time with me. As we approach Ben’s room we see Michael dashing in. Breaking into a run, we get there mere seconds after him. But the doctor stops us at the door.

“Let’s give Michael a few moments, guys.” he explains evenly.  

“Is he…?” Brian starts to ask.

The doctor cuts him off, nodding. “He’s awake.”

 

************************** 

**Brian’s POV**

The dark, smooth, stinging liquid should be restoring me, soothing me, numbing me --  something fucking useful like that. But no, not with him across the room, sitting at the bar looking fractured, despondent. I have a blast of déjà vu, harkening back to the night I stood here watching him mope about Isaac Stern, II. Like then, I close my eyes, steel myself, and take the stool next to him.

“Buy you one?”

He looks at me, unsure of my motives. “Sure, thanks.”

I hold my glass up to Kenny, the bartender, and order, “Another Chivas.”

“You look tired.”

”Been up all night at the hospital with Michael. You look…” I sigh. Truth is, “You look great.”

“No I don’t. I’ve been so stressed lately I half expect my hair to start falling out.” he complains, running his hand through his healthy locks, making me itch to do the same.

 “Fame, wealth and incomparable success don’t come easy.”

“It’s not just work.” He says, cutting me with his directed gaze. He holds it for a few seconds, then goes on, “And the work stuff’s not just what Gregory’s gotten me into. I also have this freelance job doing some graphic design. Toasties Crackers. Know anything about that?” He glares at me accusingly. I sip my drink, offering nothing. “Because they told me I came highly recommended by an ad firm in Pittsburgh.”

I shrug noncommittally. “They wanted the best.”

“And you don’t think your own creative team is any good?”

“They’re too busy with much bigger accounts right now.”

“I appreciate it, but I don’t need you to get me work. I can…”

“Take care of yourself. I’m familiar with this refrain. Look, even with all the new people I’ve hired, Kinnetik has too much going on right now to take on every account that comes through the door. They didn’t really want an ad campaign anyway. Just a new look for their packaging. I wasn’t about to turn them away completely, because when they are actually ready for a new campaign I still want to be the agency they come to. It was business. Pure and simple. If you didn’t want the work, you shouldn’t have taken it.”

“Uh huh.” He mutters, unconvinced.

“What’s wrong? Is something as mundane as consumer goods packaging beneath you now that you’re becoming a famous artiste? Just remember, princess, it was good enough for Warhol.” That earns me a nasty smirk.

How pathetic is it that I’d rather sit here in a stilted conversation with him than go to Babylon and fuck some Greek god? Especially since it hurts just to be near him. ( _Does it always hurt? A little bit. But that's a part of it._ Doesn’t only apply to sex, it seems.) Fuck this. Aren’t I the one who always maintains self-pity makes my dick soft? Get a grip, Kinney. Better yet, find somebody else to get one. “I’ve got to go. Enjoy the drink.” I clink my glass against his, drain it, and set it down.

“Brian…” He grabs my wrist as I turn to walk away. I swivel back to a heart wrenching puppy dog face. “This is…” He stops, searching for the right words, his voice charged with anguish. “I don’t know what to do.” Shit. So much for that. This is specifically what I was trying to spare him from. Why I haven’t called or emailed. He’s better off with what’s his name (yeah, so I know his name – sue me), with someone who isn’t constantly putting him through emotional hell, with someone who’s not so…me. And I won’t have him feeling guilty or obligated, or (I shudder to even think it) responsible for me. Then Zen Ben had to go ruin it all by almost biting it. Asshole.

“Exactly what you’re doing.” I place my hand on his shoulder, give it a firm squeeze, and press my lips against his forehead. As I do, he reaches up, his fingers light as air, stroking my chin, and I want to lean into it. God, I so badly want to lean into it. I want to feel his arms slip around my neck, pressing our bodies together. I want to slide my lips down until they meet his, his tongue begging entrance, zipping in to slide along mine. Fuck! I’ve got to get out of here. Now. My eyes are starting to sting. It must be…the damned smoke. I almost say, “Later,” but stop myself, afraid of what telltale sounds might seep out if I open my mouth.  

 

*************************

**Justin’s POV**

“How’s Ben doing?” my mom asks as we grab a quick lunch at the diner on the way to the airport.

“Pretty well, considering. He’ll have to take it really easy for a while, but they say he’ll be home in time for Thanksgiving.”

“That soon? What wonderful news!” Then, in her best walking-on-eggshells tone, she asks, “Did you see Brian there?”

“Of course, Mom.” Mothers and their stupid questions.

“Is that why you look like you did when you found out about Santa?” That gets a chuckle out of me. “Can I make an observation?”

Hesitantly, I agree, “Oooookay.”

“Do you remember when you took me to see that dump you moved into over the winter?”

“Mom!”

“Please. Are you going to tell me it wasn’t?” Can’t do that, can I? “I told you that as hard as it was to believe, I wished you and Brian could have worked things out.”

“I remember.”

“And you told me that you did too, but that the two of you wanted different things. When I asked if neither of you was willing to change, you informed me that’s not love, that’s sacrifice.” I nod, recalling the conversation. She looks down, playing with her bracelet. “I made a mistake not telling you then what I thought. Can I tell you now?”

I’m not sure I really want to know, but, “Why not.”

“That it sounded like something Brian would say. Not you.” I shoot her one of my patented raised eyebrow stares. “You know I’ve come to care for Brian, very much, and I think he can be exceptionally insightful about people. But sweetheart, do you really consider him to be an authority on love?”

I can’t help but grin. “I take it you don’t agree.”

“What exactly do you envision love to be? A convenience between two people who happen to want all the exact same things? Wouldn’t that make life easy! Love, or at least a loving relationship, is hard work. And yes, it sometimes requires sacrifice. What in life worth having doesn’t?” It’s such a formulaic parental comment, but I suppose there’s a reason for that. “What you and Brian call sacrifice, I call choice -- choice driven by the priorities you set for yourself. Look at Tuck.” Don’t roll your eyes, don’t roll your eyes, don’t… “He wants children very badly. But he fell in love with me, and I’m not able to give that to him anymore. At least not biologically.” 

I can’t help myself. “Are you trying to tell me you’re thinking of adopting with your live-in lover? Why don’t you just adopt Tuck instead?”

My humor is met with a decidedly unappreciative sneer. “Please pay attention. What I’m trying to explain is he’s chosen to be with me, so yes, he’s definitely sacrificed. Something quite significant, in fact. But if instead he chose to leave me and find someone who could give him that, he would be sacrificing something else he cherishes…us. I’m sorry, honey, but the reality is there’s no way around sacrifice. And it’s not so horrible. Sometimes being forced to make those choices compels you to put things in perspective, and those you ultimately make communicate your genuine feelings so much more convincingly than simple words can do.”

“Actions speak louder than words? A little cliché, isn’t it?”

“Maybe. But it’s also true." She's right. Didn't the whole Ethan vs. Brian debacle prove that unequivocally? "You and Brian, you made your choices. But it seems to me you made them in an effort to avoid sacrificing something instead of deciding if what you’re so vehemently safeguarding is really more valuable to you than what you’re trading for it. As a result, can you tell me you both didn’t end up making an enormous sacrifice after all?”

My head hurts. “I don’t know what to think anymore. I don’t know anything.” She reaches across the table and takes my hand, hurting for me. “I’m so confused…” I unleash a frustrated sigh. “I found something out yesterday, and I’m not sure what to do with it.”

“What’s that?”

“When I was at the hospital, I saw Miguel.” A strange look swipes across her face that I interpret as her not recognizing the name. “One of the night nurses from…”

“I know who he is.”

Oh. “Well, apparently Brian was there. At the hospital, when I was. He sat outside my room all night, watching over me _every night_. The whole time. Every single night, Mom.” I look at her expecting the kind of floor-falling-out-from-under-you shock I felt. But it’s not there. Instead there’s…what is that? It almost looks like shame, or guilt. “Mom?”

“Honey…”

Then it hits me. “You knew?”

“Justin…”

I yank my hand away from hers. “You knew! How could you not tell me? When you knew how much I loved him. How much it hurt me every day he didn’t show up.” I can’t believe this! “Jesus, Mom, not only didn’t you tell me, but then you tried to coerce him never to see me again, knowing how much he cared about me. That is so fucked!”

“You have to understand. I was the mother of an 18 year old who had just come dangerously close to losing him. It may not sound rational, but I wasn’t rational. I was petrified. And I blamed Brian.” 

“It wasn’t his fault!”

“I know it wasn’t. But try to imagine what it must have been like for me. I didn’t know if you’d ever be o.k. again. You’re my child, and he was a thirty year old man who had seduce… been sleeping with you. You know I feel differently about him now, but think about who he was, how he lived his life. Would you want your own child…” She pauses, rewording again, trying not to say anything she knows will make me shut down and jump to his defense. “I was trying to protect you.”

“From being loved? What would I ever do without your protection from that?” I slam my hands down, jumping out of the booth and storming out of the diner, nearly plowing into Brian as he enters. He doubles back, following me outside, watching and waiting for my explosion.

“Why does everybody insist on treating me like a child?”

“Can’t possibly be because you’re acting like one.”

“Fuck you. You’re as bad as she is. Maybe even worse. At least she has an excuse.”

“What the fuck did I do? I just got here!”

Seething, I stare him down. There’s so much to say, and the rage is bubbling through my body at a full boil. Where do I even begin? “Why is it I continue to find out more about how you feel about me when I live 400 miles away than I ever did when I slept in your bed every night?”

He blinks, guilt plastered all over his face. With a low, deferential tone, he submits, “I think we’ve established I’m a huge failure at emotional expression.”

I’m too steamed to even take in his contrition. “Where’s the drawing?”

“Drawing?”

“The one I did of you sleeping, from the Center’s Art Show.”

“Christ! That was a lifetime ago.” He grabs my arm and begins to pull me down the street. I jerk it back. His level of aggression mirroring mine, he barks, “If you’re going to scream your way down memory lane over the entire length of our history, we’re not doing it in the middle of the street. We’re not Liberty Avenue’s entertaining replacement for _Gay As Blazes_. Let’s go.”

I follow him to Babylon. It always seems so strange in here during the day, empty, bathed in the harsh light of day. O.k. Let’s do this. “You want something more recent? How about the Liberty Ride? You told me you weren’t going to do it so I’d go to L.A. I knew you were lying. You couldn’t just give me advice and trust me to make my own decision, could you? Would I have made the wrong one? Possibly. But it was mine to make. When I first joined the Pink Posse, you defended me to my mother, telling her I need to make my own mistakes. What about practicing what you preach?”

“You don’t think I let you make your own mistakes with that? You’ve got to be fucking kidding me! Your hard-on for Cody and the little toy he gave you scared the shit out of me. Do you know I never went out the nights you were on ‘patrol?’ I just sat home holding my breath, my heart in my fucking throat, praying for the sound of the door so I’d know that, for at least one more night, you weren’t in jail, or in the hospital again, or dead. Sure that every time the phone rang it was the cops needing me to come…whereverthefuck to identify your body. Do you have any idea what it’s like to be scared out of your mind like that and still force yourself not to do a fucking thing?”

“Do I? I don’t know. You tell me. How fucking terrified do you think I was when I found out from a god damned answering machine that you’d had surgery, that you had cancer? But instead of being able to hear from you what stage it was, what your prognosis was, I had to pretend I didn’t know shit. I had to constantly agonize that I was going to have to watch you die while acting like everything was hunky dory.” That seems to have gotten to him a little. “Of course I didn’t know you felt like that when I went out with Cody. Because like always, you never told me. You told me you thought I was being stupid. You never have trouble telling me that. But you never told me how you _felt_. Do you realize most of what I know about how you feel comes from either my own educated guess or from Michael, or Lindsay, or fucking Miguel?” He flinches at Miguel’s name. Guess that cat’s out of the bag. “How can I possibly make valid decisions about my life when I never have all of the pertinent information? I do what I think is right, only to find out later I was flying blind.” 

We stand there in charged silence, me with my hands folded over my chest, confronting him with my eyes, him pinching the bridge of his nose.

Demand bleeding from my voice, I put my foot down. “Why am I in New York?”

He looks genuinely confused. “You know why. We agreed…”

“Did we? Because that’s what I thought. I was under the impression it was a mutual decision made by two partners concerning what was best for both of us. But was it? Or have I been a puppet again in yet another Brian Kinney Production?”

Nothing. 

“Answer me.” He starts to look down, but I step forward, into him, not letting him back away. “Answer me.”

I see it. The life, the sparkle leaves his eyes. He’s given up. Trying to light a fire under him, I press, “I can’t fight for us by myself. If you don’t have the balls to do it with me, I guess I am better off in New York. At least there nobody infantilizes me. At least Alex will do whatever it takes to be with me.”

So much for my clever little attempt at managing him. Instead I’ve lost him to that dark place he goes, where he just doesn’t care about himself anymore. Next stop, a bump and a Beam. I scoot forward a little more, placing my hand on his chest, the smallest gasp escaping him at my touch. “Come on, Brian. Let’s not do this.” I look up and our eyes connect, mine pleading, his achingly melancholy. “You can’t push me away because you have some misguided notion that it’s for my own good.” I scrape my lips against his Adam’s apple, quelled by the contrasting roughness from the growth there by this time of the day, reassuring him in that hushed tone reserved for lovers, “I won’t let you.”

His eyelids descend with remarkable sloth, the lump against my lips shifting as he swallows hard, his muscles twitching, waiting for the synapses to fire, to direct them to raise his arms and swathe me. Finally a spark, but it’s immediately evident it’s not what I was going for. Shoving my hand away, he snarls, “You don’t have a choice.” Then he pointedly turns and stalks out, without a single backwards glance.

I stand there, rooted, gawking at the empty air he just passed through as if my will can magically force him to rematerialize. The room suddenly seems intolerably vast in his absence. Worst of all, I feel like I’ve just been dealt a swift kick in the nuts.

I hide behind my hands, inhaling slowly, my chest expanding until one more molecule would doubtlessly cause it to pop. Pausing, I purse my lips, then push it all back out in a rush, regrouping. Now what? Think. I can’t run after him. I have to bolt if I’m going to find my mother, broker some sort of truce, and catch my flight. Besides, it wouldn’t do any good right now. His mind is too resolute. He’ll just throw a few more bricks on the wall, reinforcing it.

Scanning the space, I’m struck by the irony. He inadvertently did me, us really, a favor. Of course not the favor he thinks he did, not the one he obstinately intended, but one that in this split second turns the tide. Somewhere along the line we both forgot the fundamental fact revealed right where I stand, a fact he resurrected by challenging me in this very spot. Six years ago, in this, his own domain, Brian Kinney met his match. 

Daphne wanted to know where Justin Taylor went? He got a little lost in the big city for a while, but he's finally found his way home. I don’t have a choice? Don’t bet on it!


	13. 13 - Home for the Holidays

**Justin’s POV**   

Walking through the door, it feels like time stands still. The thumpa-thumpa still beats, the big muscled boys still gyrate, the lights still flash. I wander into Babylon amazed at how it could be a year ago, just before the bomb, or six years ago, when I stepped through those doors for the first time. Sure, it looks a little different since Brian rebuilt it, but the essence of the place is so unchanging. Also familiar, searching the crowd for him. Admiring the beautiful, the cute, the unfathomably hot…but only really interested in finding that one specific face. 

From behind, somebody pounces on me, smothering me with a hug. “BABY! Back so soon?”

 

“Hi, Em! I’m in for Thanksgiving.”

 

“Yay!” He claps his hands and bounces. I love Emmett. “I thought you might not come back since you were just here. We were so focused on Ben I didn’t even get to ask about you. How’s our little SoHo homo?”

 

“I’m doing well, really starting to get some attention.”

 

“I’ll bet, with that scrumptious ass of yours.” He gives my butt a hearty squeeze for emphasis.

 

“I meant my work,” I laugh.

 

“Oh. Well that’s good too,” he teases. “I heard you’ve been snacking on a little hot tamale. I want details!”

 

I smile weakly and my eyes shift to the floor. “Later, o.k.? I’ll be here for a week.” Then, the obligatory rhetorical question, “So do I have to ask where he is?”

 

He shrugs, but his expression is all the answer I need. “Go find your man, sweetie. I’m off to find mine. Or at least mine for tonight!” 

 

 

******************************

**Brian’s POV**   

Another night, another blow job. My back against the red fabric wall of the VIP lounge, some guy whose face I already can’t remember and whose name I never knew is on his knees in front of me. Closing my eyes, I lean my head back, struggling to be hijacked by the sensation, but this loser is mediocre at best and I’m bored. Considerate guy that I am, I even try to help him out, lifting a popper to my nose and inhaling, but he’s hopeless. Seconds before I’m about to boot the worthless fool I hear a voice, a voice that awakens every nerve in my body, snap at him, “Fuck off.”

 

My pitiful friend is unceremoniously shoved away, and my cock abruptly springs free, the cool air smacking it cruelly. But just as swiftly it’s enveloped again by a warm, skillful mouth. Without moving my head or opening my eyes, a huge smile washes over my face as I think, “Now that’s more like it.” I surrender to the pleasure for a minute or two, enjoying his plump lips, his masterful tongue. But then I discard the smile, take his head in my hands and tilt it up to look at me. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

 

“If you have to ask that, I must have lost my touch.”

 

Unamused, I snipe, “You know what I mean.”

 

“I had something to take care of.”

 

“What’s that?”

 

“This,” he says, returning his attention to my rock hard cock. I give in…for now. I’m nothing if not civil, and it would be unforgivably rude to ruin a perfectly good blow job.

 

After the first truly satisfying orgasm I’ve had…let’s face it, since the last time I was with him (fuck, that was three months ago, in Toronto), I tuck myself in, zip myself up, and march out of the lounge. I head down the stairs and toward the exit, but he catches up, grabs my arm and turns me to him. Hooking his finger into the waistband of my pants, he lures me out onto the floor, smiling that god damned smile he knows will get him whatever he wants and whispering, “Dance with me.” Leaning in and sucking on my earlobe, he adds, “Please.” He wraps his arms around my neck and begins nuzzling and kissing my throat. I’m fucking pissed at myself for being so easily and obviously manipulated, but screw it, it just feels right to be with him, here, sinking into our world. We can talk later, I decide. Then I further justify, maybe after I fuck his brains out.

 

 

******************************

**Justin’s POV**   

The ride to the loft was insufferably silent. At least he let me drive. He’s in pretty bad shape, not exactly aided by the half of a bottle of Beam he downed on the ride. Upstairs he closes the door and swings around, annoyed. “So now are you going to tell me what the fuck you’re doing here?”

 

“I told you I’d be in for Thanksgiving.”

 

“I mean what are you doing HERE?” he growls, pointing down at the floor with such emphasis that he stumbles.

 

O.k. Tread carefully, we’re in the danger zone. If I push too hard, he’ll just retaliate with double the horsepower. Ego, I remind myself. Always cater to his ego. But at the same time ensure that I promote my own agenda. Ah, the intricacies of capturing a Kinney. That Crocodile Hunter guy thinks he’s got it tough? They’re newborn kittens in comparison. I go with, “I know how you feel about apologies, but I owe you one.”

 

“Why? Did you put an unflattering profile of me up on 9inchesplus.com?”

 

“That depends on what you consider unflattering. I did post Ted’s picture in place of yours. But that’s not what the apology’s about.” He looks more than a little concerned I might be serious. Heh. “I lied to you.” His expression remains concerned. “I told you that if you don’t have the balls to fight for us, I wouldn’t do it alone.” 

 

He starts to say something, but stops himself. He blinks a few times, getting his bearings and shoring up his fucking barricade, then dismissively tosses out “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be here.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“What would Alice say?”

 

I correct his intentional mistake, grinning. “ALEX wouldn’t say anything. I broke up with him.”

 

“Reeeeally,” he drags dramatically, then snarks, “What happened? Did another of your paramours fall off the pseudo-hetero wagon and stray? We all disappoint you, don’t we, Sunshine?”

 

Classic. Well, I’m not biting. Not anymore. Of course for fun I can make him pay, just for a minute. “Actually, Alex is great. He’s the perfect boyfriend -- caring, supportive, fun, brilliant. Imagine this, he treats me like an adult. Not to mention he’s really fucking hot and you wouldn’t believe how great he is in…”

 

He cuts me off curtly with an uncoordinated wave of his hand. “I got it. So if he’s Mr. Wonderful, why’d you dump his ass?”

 

“He has this one irrefutable deficiency I just can’t seem to get past.”

 

He wiggles his little finger at me with a sly smile, questioning with his eyebrows.

 

I chuckle and shake my head no, holding my hands shoulder width apart, palms facing each other. Then I walk toward him and place them on either side of his face, quietly explaining, “He’s not you.” 

 

  ******************************

**Brian’s POV**   

Relief floods me. Maybe even cautious excitement. But there’s something else nagging at me. The realization that I can’t do this again, can’t put myself in this position. I won’t be able to let him go again, and I’m going to have to. He’ll need me to, whether he knows it or not. And this last time it nearly killed me.

 

A fraction of a second later, of course, is the accompanying realization that I’m full of shit. I can’t _not_ go through this again. Sorry boys and girls. There’ll be no getting off this fucking roller coaster (both meanings applicable).

 

He looks up at me with hopeful eyes. “Aren’t you glad I’m here?” he asks, sounding not a day older than Gus.

 

I swim in those eyes, considering my reaction. There I go again. Considering my reaction? That’s laughable. Who the fuck am I kidding? He could leave me a thousand times, and a thousand times I’ll be here if he wants to come back. I think we both know that by now. Anyway, I can hardly call it leaving me when I placed my foot so firmly on his hot little ass and jettisoned him toward a new life, now can I? I close my eyes and bury my nose in hair, inhaling deeply. I sigh, sobering quickly, exhaling the way you do after a long, grueling day. “I’m glad you’re here,” wafts out in a gust of breath.

 

He pulls back, smiling. “Prove it.”

 

I grab his face and kiss him deeply, intensely, as if I’m trying to make up for the time since our lips last met all at once. We sink onto the bed, kissing endlessly, disrobing, running our practiced hands over each others bodies, in no hurry to take it anywhere else. At least not yet. I lose myself in the warmth of his mouth, the gentle probing of his tongue, the sensation of his hands exploring me and the feel of his skin against mine.

 

Neither of us are particularly big talkers during sex. Occasionally I’ll throw out a “You like that?” or he’ll demand “Fuck me!” Of course there’s the “yeah”s, “oh, god”s and the like. But for the most part, not a lot of chatter. Just plenty of wordless vocalizing. And almost never names. Most of the time I either don’t know the name of the guy I’m fucking or I have no cause to remember it, so it’s only logical I’d be in the habit of not calling out names. That could get ugly. And I guess he followed suit, since so much of his sexual routine was developed at my feet (and my dick, and my ass…). We’re both primarily heavy breathers, moaners, groaners, grunters. So when I pin his arms above his head, my tongue tracing patterns on the soft, sensitive flesh underneath and he pants, “Mmmmm, Brian…” in my ear, it sends a shiver down my spine and brings my half tumescent cock fully to life. Feeling it press against him, he begins to roll over, but my hand splays against his chest, blocking him. He smiles broadly, pleased I’m so eager to be face to face, lays back, pulls me on top of him, and wraps his legs around my hips. I reach over for a condom, and he takes the opportunity to suck the nipple that hovers over his mouth, pulling it gently in his teeth as his tongue flutters over it, my arm nearly buckling in desire.

 

I enter him, and it’s like two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle slipping perfectly into place, no other pieces offering such an ideal fit, the picture becoming exponentially clearer when they’re joined than the two individual images had been. Our eyes only break contact briefly when one or the other of us closes theirs in rapture. I do everything I can not to blink, resenting even milliseconds of the sight of him stolen from me when I fail. I proceed slowly, deliberately for a long while, reveling in being inside of him again, allowing our union to allay my misery, to soothe my very soul. He locks his ankles, lifting himself so I sink further inside him. The potency of his gaze grips me tighter than his beguilingly snug walls, and gradually my orgasm builds. I quicken my movements, triggering its culmination, my face tucking into his neck, moaning softly, “Justin…” It’s more a grateful validation that it’s actually him beneath me, surrounding me as the waves sublimely pulse through my body than a heated cry in the throes. Hearing my thankful prayer, a small sob bursts forth as he joins me in release, clamping down and intensifying my already powerful climax. His arms and legs stay wrapped securely around me, pulling me as close to him as humanly possible. Then slowly his fingers ease their fierce grip on my back. His legs ultimately fall as I pull out and dispose of the condom. I stroke his face, noticing his conspicuous ocular varnish, and ask with my eyes if he’s all right.

 

“You called out my name,” he stammers, simmering with emotion.

 

“By now I do remember it.” I tease, precipitating a playful slap on my ass. I remind him, “You called mine out too.”

 

“But I do that. I mean, I’ve done it before. Not you though. Not once. Never in all these years have I heard you use my name while we’re fucking. Don’t think I don’t know why, either.”

 

“If it’s a problem, I won’t do it again.”

 

“A problem? Hardly.” Craning his neck, his tongue outlines my ear, spiraling inward. Low and lustful, he grumbles into it, “It made me come.”

 

In response, we both feel my cock regaining its life. We look down at it and chuckle together. His hand revives it fully while his mouth kisses and sucks the skin where my neck meets my shoulder. Practically purring, my hand surrounds his, and together we stroke my dick with delicious leisure. Fuck, that feels good.

 

Abandoning my neck, he slides down and kisses the crown of my cock, creating the sweet anticipation of forthcoming contact. But there’s nothing. I glance down to find him focused on my face.

 

“Say it.”

 

I groan in annoyance and frustration, my hand palming his head, pressing it back toward my cock. But he resists. 

 

“Say it,” he repeats, more assertively, more seductively.

 

“Oh, Justin!” I gasp sarcastically.

 

His eyes still locked to mine, he flattens his tongue, dragging the fleshy mass of it heavily across the tip of my dick, tensing at the last moment to a point that digs into my slit. Christ! My back arches instinctively, my knees bending, feet flat on the bed. Then he blows lightly across the wet head, and I snap, curving the other way my chin tucked to my chest, my hands lost in his hair.

 

“Again. And mean it.”

 

Little shit. I’m not sure I can say anything, my muscles tense, contracting, my teeth clenched. I try, but an unintelligible grunt is all that creeps out. He blows once more, and holy fuck, I indulge his request involuntarily. “Justin…”

 

My dick disappears between those pouty lips, and the sight of it matched with the awaited sensation almost provokes me to shoot. I flop back, inhaling purposefully, attempting to decelerate my racing blood flow. He senses my battle and removes his mouth, grasping the base of my shaft firmly. Neither of us moves as I calm my impulses. Opening my eyes I see him, head resting against the inside of my thigh, eyes closed, and as often happens when we’re fuck…making love, he steals my breath as I think, “God, he’s beautiful.” Those blue orbs open and affix themselves to mine. He sports a smile, low in wattage but steeped in meaning. I mirror it, never altering the massage my fingers are administering to his scalp.

 

He gently kisses the tip of my dick, sending tingles hurdling from vertebrae to vertebrae, and mouths “I missed you.” Diving down again, he kisses my thighs, the crease where my leg meets my hip, my balls. He sucks them one at a time, first the prosthetic, then the genuine article, drawing them into his mouth, his tongue dancing on the rough skin. All the while, his hand resumes stroking my profusely dripping cock. A constant moan streams from me, encouraging him to intensify his actions. I begin to thrust my hips, increasing the friction of his hand, and he removes it. I gulp at the loss, my own hand on a path to replace his, but he grabs it firmly, smacking it down on the bed and holding it there. He pries the other away from his head and holds that down as well. It’s then I notice he’s stronger than he used to be, his arms more defined. Has he been working out? Maybe it’s toting those heavy canvasses around. Or maybe he’s just maturing into his body. My distracted thoughts don’t last long as he slides up my body, licking a large lazy circle around my torso, stopping at my nipple and sucking it relentlessly, causing me to yelp. Then he wiggles, our stiff cocks rubbing together. His head drops to mine as we both swoon and keen from the contact, grinding so our swollen dicks continue to slide rigorously against each other. Fuck, I want to come. I _need_ to come. So I swing my own pelvis, straining to make him as desperate as I am to complete this and yes, oh yesssss, more sparks fly as our dicks collide again. But it doesn’t work. He sucks in his breath with a whine, wincing, but then shifts his hips away. He bites and licks and sucks the spot on my neck he knows will torment me, then takes nearly my entire ear in his mouth, coating it with his scalding hot breath.

 

“Say it,” he whispers with deep-seated desire. I can sense his urgency, and I want to reciprocate his denial just on principle. But there’s no way. I can’t possibly engage in a game of cat and mouse now. He’s got me right where he wants me. I have no choice but to…

 

“Justin…”

 

Hearing my voice, thick with gravel, he groans, leaning his whole body heavily on me. Releasing my arms, he maneuvers back down to my briefly neglected dick. Rubbing his lips along it, first one side, then the other, and lastly the top, engorged and purple, he extorts a shout, “Ahhh, Justin!”

 

Finally taking me whole in his mouth once more, it’s clear he’s done with the games. Thank god! I seriously doubt I could take any more. It’s official, the King of Liberty Avenue has been brought to his knees. Well, brought down by somebody on their knees, so to speak. My hips propel themselves toward his suctioning mouth, the heat of it a magnet. His lips and tongue in constant motion, the back of his throat torturously massaging my…my…oh, fuck, that’s good…so fucking good! Losing it, I can’t stop, a string of impassioned “Justin”s flowing out of me like a mantra. Each utterance is met with a deep moan that vibrates against me, sending bolts of lightning down my cock and through every inch of bone and flesh. He’s stroking himself at the same pace, awarding me the benefits of his heightening passion. His other hand slips steathfully between my cheeks, a slick finger entering me. Like a piston, he pumps it in and out of me briskly, repeatedly nudging the spot that makes everything flash white. A second finger joins it, and, Jesus, that hurts, but in the best way imaginable. Dear god, don’t let him stop…the unyielding sucking, the stinging twisting, his euphoric mewls I feel so acutely they might as well originate in my own gut…and then, “Oh god, JUSTIN!…with one scissor my orgasm rips through me with a fury, as does his, our bodies in tandem spasms as he expertly juggles swallowing and coming simultaneously. Exploding interminably, I’m convinced momentarily that I’ll spend eternity at the peak of ecstasy (the kind that’s unbeatably superior to the variety I get from my disco pharmacologist).

 

At last deflating, it’s as if every muscle has been individually wrung out. I couldn’t move a single one even if the bed were on fire (which it is -- figuratively anyway). He slithers back up to lay facing me, soaked with sweat and equally exhausted. Then his tongue peeks out between his glistening lips, glazed with the product of his ministrations, swiping across, and it may be the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. I find the strength to pull him to me and inhale more than kiss them. We share my juices with the aftershocks of our twin climaxes still coursing through us, hands intently caressing each others faces, moaning passionately into each others’ mouths.

 

He burrows into me, clinging as if I’m a life raft. My arms clasp him like a long lost treasure newly recovered, and the last thing we both hear before we slip into unconsciousness is my sated exhalation, “Justin...” 


	14. 14 - TKO

  
Author's notes: WARNING: Melodrama ahead! It felt appropriate. In a lot of ways, this is Justin's chapter, and frankly, Justin has a tendency to be a teensy bit melodromatic. ;-)  


* * *

**Justin’s POV**

 

Before my eyes open, I send up a silent prayer that it was real, that it wasn’t one of my countless dreams where he’s filling me, my mouth on every part of him, his beautiful, strong hands rubbing my…

 

“Justin.”

 

Oh, god. Last night. Him moaning my name as I milked him dry…

 

“Justin.”

 

I didn’t even realize I had my morning woody, but now his warm hand encircles me, pumping slowly. “Mmmmmmmm…” I moan, my eyes flittering open.

 

His face looms above mine, smiling devilishly. “I guess that answers that question. You were thrashing around in your sleep. I didn’t know if it was a nightmare or…”

 

Before he can finish, I attack, delving deep into his mouth, the kiss instantly heated. Keeping our lips glued together, I turn the rest of my body so my back is against his firm chest, reaching behind me to stroke him into readiness. Not surprisingly he’s already rarin’ to go.

 

Just then the phone rings. As he reaches for it, I run my fingers lightly down his long, sculpted arms. “Don’t answer it,” I demand, pressing my ass back against him, making him forget all about…

 

Damn, that thing is annoying. The insistent ringing of the phone finally stops as the machine kicks on. A voice I know all too well floats across the loft. “Brian, it’s Jennifer…”

 

I jolt awake, reaching across the bed to grab the phone, disoriented. His side is empty. “Mom?”

 

“Thank god, Justin!”

 

“What’s wrong?” Alarmed I jump to a sitting position.

 

“Well, my son comes in on a Tuesday evening, says he’s going out for a little while, and by Wednesday afternoon there’s still no sign of him.”

 

Oops. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to worry you. But I’m not a child.”

 

“No, you’re not. You’re old enough to understand that I would worry when you disappear for over twelve hours.”

 

“I’m sure you had a pretty good idea of where I’d be.”

 

“Normally I would. But I thought you and Brian weren’t…well, weren’t.”

 

Join the club. I have no fucking idea what we are, or aren’t. Not wanting to get into it, I just reassure her. “I’m fine, Mom. I’ll see you later.”

 

“Next time, just call. Take pity on your poor mother. Bye, sweetheart.”

 

I hang up and shake my head to clear it. I call out his name, but there’s no response. Getting up, I search the loft and find nothing. He’s gone.

   

*************************

**Brian’s POV**   

Cynthia’s delighted squeal provides an unmistakable signal of Justin’s arrival. It was a given he’d come down here as soon as he woke up. Checking the clock, I have to laugh. Seems he can still sleep the entire fucking day away.

 

Now comes the tough part. The "tough love" part, I should say. I shouldn’t have fucked him last night, given him hope. But what can I do? Superman has kryptonite, Rage has JT (Jesus, Mikey’s influence is showing). It’s useless to resist.

 

He bounds in, and his face lights up at the sight of me. I’m concentrating, making sure mine doesn’t do the same. That and thinking of snatch to quell the stirring I already feel in my pants. In my most professional, detached voice, I ask, “Can I help you?”

 

“You certainly can.” He snuggles up to me, his hand heading directly for my crotch, massaging. Oh, yeah…maybe just a quickie. Damn. I’m 34 year old man (shit!), and I still get hard around him faster than a fourteen year old with a dirty magazine. O.k., Kinney. Show a little control. 

 

I back away. “I’m working. Anyway, don’t you have a flight to catch?” Back behind my desk, I shuffle through papers, pretending to afford them my rapt attention.

 

“A flight? I don’t go back until Monday. Thanksgiving, remember?”

 

“Right. Well, have fun with that.”

 

“Aren’t you going to Debbie’s?”

 

“Yeah, because I do so love holidays with the ‘family.’”

 

“What about Gus?”

 

“What about him? They’re here for four days. I have no craving to bond with him over a bird carcass.”

 

“So, what? Poppers in place of turkey? With a side of Beam instead of oyster stuffing?”

 

“If it makes you feel any better, I promise my Thanksgiving will involve stuffing a turkey. Maybe even several. Fuck oysters, though. I stuff with meat. Prime beef.” He doesn’t seem to appreciate the humor. “Well, thanks for stopping by, but happy hour’s over. Busy, busy.” I state, voice clipped, ushering him to the door. “I’ll look you up next time I’m in the city.”

 

“Brian…” He twists, escaping my escorting arm. “What the fuck is going on here?”

 

I look around. “Uh, the creation of promotional materials for commercial…”

 

 “With you, with us,” he snips impatiently. Then softening, he starts, “Last night…”

 

“Was great. Let’s do it again sometime. But right now I have a conference call scheduled with Leo Brown.”

 

“Let’s do it again sometime?” I’ve definitely got him off balance. Good. It’ll be easier to win this round if he’s thrown. “All right. Cut the crap. Are you pissed about Alex?”

 

“Why would I be pissed that you dumped your lusty little Latin lover?” Shit. That sounded a lot more like a jealous, jilted schmuck than I intended.

 

“I meant are you pissed that I had someone to dump?”

 

“Don’t be a twat. How many times have we talked about this? You were supposed to go out there and chase all of your dreams.”

 

“What if it turns out my biggest dream isn’t in New York? What if it’s right here?”

 

Thanks, Sunshine, for reminding me why I’m doing this to you…uh, for you. He’s doing so well, his career taking off, and he undeniably loves it there. Who wouldn’t? I won’t be the one to hold him back. No fucking way.

 

A little harshly, I profess, “Nothing about Pittsburgh is a dream. It’s a nightmare. Now go make nice with all your loved ones, pig out on poultry and forty varieties of carbs, and then get that infamous ass of yours back to New York. And don’t ever look back.”

 

I sense a shift. The pushy, pleading kid in him fades and the strong, decisive man emerges.

 

“So that’s it?”

 

“That’s it.”

 

“O.k. then. I’ll go.” Really? He turns and heads for the door.

 

“I just have to say one thing.” There you go. It couldn’t be that easy. “When Tucker and my mom moved in together, when Mel and Linds moved to Toronto, and in a million other instances, you insisted, ‘It’s their lives, it’s their decision.’ For some inexplicable reason I don’t get that same level of respect from you. With me, your opinion that you should get to decide what’s best for me is clearly unshakable. But before you applaud yourself for being so noble, you should know how intrinsically wrong you are. Instead of bestowing me with this selfless gift you’ve concocted, you’re condemning me to a haunted future.”

 

Huh? “Haunted? What are you on?”

 

“The first time you fucked me, you told me you wanted me to remember so that no matter who I was ever with, you’d always be there. Well, congratulations. You got your wish. You always are. You always will be.” Water pools above his reddened lower lids, threatening to roll over his long lashes and drip onto his rosy cheeks. His voice trembling, he hammers away, “I tried to love Ethan, but I couldn’t. And not just because he’s an asshole. I couldn’t even love Alex, who’s so fucking perfect for me it’s scary. But he never had a chance. No one does, because there’s no room for me to fall in love with anyone else unless I stop loving you. And I don’t see that happening. Ever. You always say the only thing that matters is doing my best – directing me to do the best work I can, have the best time I can, be the best homosexual I can possibly be. But where being with the man I love is concerned, without you the most I can hope for is second best.”

 

Unable to hold off the flow any longer, tears spill like a swollen river over a dam, the shining remnants streaking his face. This is all wrong. There’s not a doubt in my mind he could get over me and build a life that makes him happy. He’s staggeringly resilient. I persevere, not recover, wearing my scars like a badge of honor. But him, he bounces back. What did he say after the bashing? _Bad as new._ But if he won’t let himself… The memory must lighten my face, because he erroneously translates my expression.

 

His voice illustrating that I’ve bruised him to his very core, wobbles, “I tell you that because of your uncompromising miscalculation I’ll never be truly happy, and you fucking _smile_?”

 

Lamely jumping to explain, I stutter, “No! I wasn’t…it wasn’t about that. I swear. I was just remembering…it doesn’t matter.”

 

Sniffling, drying his eyes, his face with his sleeves, he reports, “No. I guess not. If you insist that this is it, I guess you were right. I have no choice. But you know what? You’d better be sure. I mean, one hundred percent positive. Because if I go right now, I’m gone. For good. I’m not playing this game anymore.”

 

I try in vein to swallow the watermelon that somehow worked its way into my throat. This entire disaster was designed to ensure his long term happiness, with or without his consent. But if he won’t let go, and he seems hell-bent not to, all I’m accomplishing is sentencing us both to a future full of misery and loneliness. 

 

My silence is deafening as I struggle, deciding on my next step. In the meantime he traverses my office, jerking open the huge door. Everything about the way he moves declares he’s serious. My chest tightens so acutely I worry I might actually be having a heart attack. It’s like all the air in the room is leaving with him. 

 

The intercom buzzes as Cynthia announces, “Brian, Leo Brown is on the phone for your conference call.”

 

He’s not pausing, not hesitating, and the closing door becomes a lid on my coffin. My eyes following as he disappears from sight.

 

“Justin!” Fuck! Did I mean to do that? I’m certain I didn’t mean to sound certifiably panicked. And I don’t remember consciously opting to dash around my desk, running for the door. My body’s on autopilot, denying my brain any input.

 

I reach the door just as he returns, barreling through, our mouths crashing together, our teeth painfully squashing our savagely mashing lips. Embracing fiercely, we hold each other, heaving perfectly synchronized breaths. 

 

Cynthia buzzes again, “Brian? Leo’s still holding.”

 

Afraid to release him, to watch him walk out again, I squeak, “Later?” My voice, my face, my entire presence petitioning.

 

He nods, the tears reappearing, but changed. I hold his hand until our arms are fully stretched, and then for a instant longer, transmitting a squeeze. He returns it, and our fingers slip apart as he retreats.

 

Well, nobody can accuse us of being boring! Now I just have to figure out how I’m going to be coherent on the phone with Leo.

  

******************************

 

**Justin’s POV**   

I knock repeatedly, calling out his name, but there’s no answer. I know he’s home. I saw the ‘vette. I dig out my key and go inside, the loft appearing empty. Ascending the stairs to the bedroom, I hear the shower, and it’s quite a battle resisting the urge to strip on the spot and jump in there with him.   

He walks out, still glistening, red towel wrapped low on his hips. Seeing me, he removes it, sliding it behind me, using it to pull me to him.

 

“What are you doing?” I inquire.

 

“Don’t tell me I need to teach you this stuff all over again,” he teases as he nibbles on my neck.

 

“Brian, we need to talk.” I exhale, incredulous. His eyes roll, head flopping back with a woeful groan. “I know those are some of your least favorite words, but we can’t just fall into bed and pretend that this afternoon never happened, that the past few months were a mere unfortunate figment of our imagination.”

 

“We can’t? I’m pretty sure we can. Watch,” he remarks through a seductive smile, backing me up until my calves bump the edge of the bed. He falls forward, trapping me under him, leaning in to kiss me.

 

Fucking unbelievable! I shove him off of me, rolling away and hopping up. “Get dressed.”  
  


“I’m not getting dressed. Do you forget how this works? You’re supposed to get _un_ dressed. We can talk in bed. Come over here and let me help you.” He sits up, lifting the hem of my shirt, kissing my stomach, his tongue slipping into the crater in the center. 

 

Word’s can’t express how much I don’t want to stop him, and my hands automatically seek out his head. Oh god, he’s sliding his tongue in and out, tongue fucking my navel, and I’m already hard. Stepping back in self-preservation, I assert, “We cannot have a serious conversation in bed, or naked…anywhere. You know we’ll just end up all over each other.”  
  


“Explain to me how that’s a bad thing.”

 

He has this innocuous, quizzical look, as if he’s genuinely confused. God damn it. I wish he didn’t make me laugh when I really didn’t want to. Like a teacher to a first grade class, I lay it out, “Right now that’s a bad thing because we have some…issues to work out. Substantial ones.”

 

“Issues. I see.” He reaches forward and weaves his arms around me, pulling me back toward him. “I thought one of the primary benefits of not fucking women was escaping this bullshit. But o.k. Issues. Does that mean it would be more appropriate for one of us to lie on the couch? And who gets to play the doctor?”

 

I wriggle free again. “Stop it. This is critical. Meet me on the sofa.”

 

He sighs, clearly communicating that he’s oh so put upon. Poor baby. He complies, then struts down the bedroom stairs in his tightest black wife beater and best ass hugging jeans.

 

“Asshole.”

 

Feigning innocence, he coos, “What?”

 

“You know seeing you in that makes me hard.”

 

Exaggeratedly batting his eyes, he says, “This is what I wear around the house.”

 

“When you want me to jump you.”

 

“When exactly do you imagine I don’t want you to jump me?”

 

There he goes again, making me laugh against my will. It’s only funny because it’s true. “Just go throw on another shirt. Please.” 

 

He spins, returning to the bedroom muttering, “You think I didn’t notice I already got you hard?”

 

I call after him, “And not the red Armani button down!” I smile as I hear a hanger being returned to the closet, another one removed. He knows that one gets me too. Sneaky bastard. Of course, seeing him in a potato sack would get me hard. That’s not the point.

 

Returning, he flops onto the other end of the sofa, bitching, “O.k. Let’s get this over with.”

 

“That’s not a very constructive attitude.”

 

Aggravated, he snipes, “I’m doing it, aren’t I? Don’t press your luck.”

 

I take a deep breath, my hands covering my face. “I can’t keep doing this.”

 

“GREAT! Let’s fuck.” He grabs my legs, dragging me toward him.

 

That earns him one more begrudging chuckle. “Not this as in this conversation. This as in our maddening vicious circle. We have to determine what we are. What are we?”

 

He pauses to think, then replies with a dead on game show contestant immitation, “Carbon-based life forms?”

 

“Cute.” I tell him in a voice that denotes the opposite.

 

“I prefer disturbingly hot, if you don’t mind.”

 

“I mean our relationship. Obviously we’re fucking again, or at least you intend to. Can I expect you to return my phone calls and emails now?” He nods, slightly bashful about his recent avoidance. “And can I stop waiting for the other shoe to drop? For the next time you decide to push me away for whatever the fuck reason you invent?” He raises his hands, surrendering. “So…are we partners again?”

 

“If that’s what you want.”

 

I growl in frustration. “Why won’t you ever just tell me instead of always turning everything around?”

 

“Am I supposed to know what the fuck you’re talking about? Because I never got the agenda.”

 

“I need you to tell me what you want.” He starts to open his mouth, but I cut him off. “And don’t say you want to fuck.” His mouth snaps closed again as he pantomimes zipping it shut. I’m getting pissed now. He senses the change in my body language, and finally gets serious, for the moment anyway.

 

“What I want. Can you be more specific?”

 

I realize he really doesn’t understand what I’m getting at. Suddenly I’m monumentally nervous. He has no idea, but the fact is whatever happens next will define where we go in the future, if anywhere. This is a make-us-or-break-us discussion. Denial won’t cut it anymore. If I don’t force this, we’ll just perpetuate our untenable together / apart / together / apart dynamic. It’s time for a bona fide resolution. Far past time.

 

Here we go. “When I told you New York meant nothing to me, I’ll grant you I overstated it.” He raises his eyebrows at me in a no-shit-Sherlock gesture. “But it was because I still believed what I’d told Lindsey when she got insistent. That New York wasn’t my opportunity of a lifetime. You were.”

 

He leans in and gives me peck on the lips, smoothing his hand along my face. “You were wrong, Sunshine. Ridiculously sweet, but wrong.”

 

“I _was_ wrong. I understand that now.” He looks a little deflated. “Not like that. It’s just, both were. Are. And I’ll have more than just those. It’s not like you only get one opportunity of a lifetime. If you pay attention, you get plenty. You just have to recognize them, and take them.” Shit. This is not coming out at all the way I planned. Instead of profound, I sound like some cheesy motivational speaker.

 

He agrees. In a mockingly worshipful tone, he cries, “Thank you. You’ve made me see my life in a whole new light.” He begins to sing, “I once was lost, but now am found. Was blind, but now I seeeeeee.”

 

O.k. That cracks me up. Because it’s funny, and because he’s possibly the world’s worst singer. “Shut the fuck up,” I muster, slapping at him. Deep breath. Start again. “I don’t understand how you can be utterly peerless at the side of love most people find… herculean, even impossible. Everyone thinks you’re so selfish, and you let them. I think you even like it. But you’re the least selfish person I know. When it comes to the people who are most important to you, you always put our needs ahead of your own. I’ve seen you do it with Michael, with Lindsay, Gus, me. You let us go, or shove us away when doing it is obviously excruciating for you, because our happiness is more important to you than your own. I thought I could prove how much I love you by doing the same for you. Turns out I’m the one who’s really selfish, because I tried and I’m failing. Badly. But that’s o.k. Because I’m equivalently good at the flip side, the side you can’t seem to fathom. Fighting for it. Embracing it. Letting the people you love know in a way that doesn’t require a decoder ring how much they mean to you.”

 

“So, we’re perfect for each other. You rim my yin, and I’ll yank your yang,” he jokes, reaching for me.

 

I toss his hand aside. “I know you’re just making fun of me, but you’re right. We are. If we put any kind of effort in, you know, we can learn a lot from each other.”

 

“Yes, sensei.”

 

Enough. “Don’t do that. Don’t patronize me. I’m not that little virgin you first brought home anymore.”

 

“I should say not! My god, last night alone…”

 

Determined, I ignore the crack. “I want you to listen to me. Are you listening?”

 

He rolls his eyes. “I’m listening.”

 

“I figured some things out while I was away. You like nothing better than to dispense your limitless philosophies of life. Especially to me. And I soaked them up as gospel, a true disciple of the world according to the Great Kinney. Don’t get me wrong, a lot of them are incredibly wise. Most of them, in fact. But you don’t know everything, Brian. And sometimes you’ve got it fucking backwards. Particularly when it comes to love. It must be the brain damage, because it took some time apart and some smacks in the head from the right people for me to recall how much better I understand it than you do.”

  
“Oh, really?” He muses, still being infuriatingly condescending. 

 

“Yes. Really. You said that you don’t want to live with someone who sacrificed their life and called it love to be with you. I agreed, not because that’s what _I_ was doing, but because I thought you were. You were molding yourself into this person you never wanted to be…somebody you’d probably detest…for my sake. All I succeeded in doing was flipping it – I sacrificed love and called it a life.”

 

His expression turns soft, sweet, and I just want to melt in his arms. He reaches out and cups my face, and I tilt my head into it. I turn to kiss his palm, and then take his hand between mine, cognizant we have to plod on. This has been a long time coming, and I don’t want us to just bandage it with sex. I want to heal it, truly and fully.

 

“Your conviction I needed to go to New York was based on _your_ definition of success, not mine. And they’re entirely contradictory. Notoriety, reverence, power, money, all the things that go with them – I know how import they are to you, and I’m not judging that. But they don’t mean shit to me.”

 

“You certainly seem to enjoy the fruits of my labor,” he notes.

 

“Sure I do. Who wouldn’t? But just because I enjoy them doesn’t mean I need them to be happy. I’d be just as happy with you in my ‘small but charmless studio’ as I would here.”

 

“No you wouldn’t. Trust me. Because if I had to live in that shithole, I’d make your life a living hell.”

 

Laughing, I admit, “That’s probably true. What I’m saying is that for me, success is doing something I love for the pure joy of doing it, not for any potential rewards. It’s expressing myself -- through my art, by standing up for the things I believe in, fighting against the things I don’t. And it’s having a life filled with people I care about, and who care about me. I didn’t have to go to New York for that. And sure, it might have been harder trying to build a career from Pittsburgh, but it wasn’t inconceivable. What gave me the leg up was the _Art Forum_ review, and that happened here. Anyway, so what if it’s harder? Harder isn’t unachievable. If you haven’t noticed by now, when I make up my mind, nothing will stop me.”

 

He snickers, “Yeah, I noticed.”

 

“I never saw it as a sacrifice. I was clear on what my priorities were. Besides, I could be with you and have a career as an artist, even if I never attained what you’d consider to be success. You were the one whose options were mutually exclusive, both giving me the kind of relationship I wanted and still being who you are. At least that’s what I thought. But now…”

  
“But now what?”

 

“Tell me the truth. Was it really all for me? _Only_ for me? Because even when you proposed, that’s what you implied. That your one good reason to get married was to prove to me how much you love me. That you would give me anything, you would do anything, you'd be anything to make _me_ happy.” He looks genuinely touched that I remember it verbatim. Like I could ever forget. “It was all about me. You never said anything about wanting it yourself. Did you? Were you just too fucking proud or stubborn or afraid to admit it? Was it just easier to let everyone think you were the same exalted ‘Brian Kinney, Hottest Stud on Liberty Avenue’ making a magnanimous gesture than it was to let go of a fraction of your vanity? Was it just too unimaginable to confess to changing your mind because people might whisper that you were a hypocrite, or worse, laugh that you’d been tamed by some twink?”

 

“Christ! Do you have to turn every point into a dramatic monologue worthy of Shakespeare, Dr. Freud?”

 

“Fuck you. Can’t you take anything seriously? Can’t you take ME seriously?”

 

He looks like a child who’s just been scolded by his favorite uncle, sullen and silent. I grab his chin and force him to look at me. “You’re not wriggling off the hook this time with a sarcastic remark. You can call me a lesbian or a pseudo-hetero or whatever the fuck clever little name you come up with, but Jesus, Brian, at least I’m not too chicken shit to tell you or anyone else that I’m so fucking deep in love with you that I feel like I’m drowning half the time. That what I want more than anything else in my life is to be with you, to sleep beside you every night and wake up with you every morning. Have you be the first person I come to when something amazing or shitty happens, whether it’s in New York, or Pittsburgh, or Timbuk-fucking-tu.” I stop for a moment, catching my breath, and to be honest, milking the dramatic pause.

 

Time to go for it. Fuck! The potent combination of adrenalin and fear has me shaking like a leaf, and I think I’m going to puke. Please, Brian. _Please._ Everything depends on you trusting me enough to make this leap. “But you know what? I’m not going to hang around hoping and guessing and inferring that you want it too, that it’s not all just you selflessly sacrificing everything you are for my benefit. Looking to other people to confirm it for me because you can’t…or won’t. I’m done with that. You’re going to have to tell me…verbally. And I won’t wait five fucking years this time. What do you want, Brian? Not what you think I want, or what you’ve decided I should want. Just for once, answer the fucking question. What do _YOU_ want?”

 

He jerks his head out of my grip, springs up and stares off out the window, looking for all the world like he wants to speak if only the words weren’t glued to the walls of his throat.

 

My arms flail wildly, my exasperation escaping through my gestures. If he calls me a drama princess, I may actually hit him. My voice escalates, “Holy shit! You’re the most honest person I know. You face every problem that comes along head on, no matter how brutal. No sugar coating. No rose colored glasses. No bullshit. And you push everyone else to do the same. This doesn’t even qualify as a problem. It’s a good thing. _We’re_ a good…an amazing thing. So what are you so afraid of? Why is this so fucking hard for you?”

 

“Because…” he mumbles to the wall so low I almost miss it, turning his back to me like he always does when he’s trying to hide erupting emotions.

 

“Because what?” I bite back, in part because I’m at such a loss I want to toss him out of the fucking window and in part because I’ve learned the best way for me to draw him out is with anger. Compassion from me only makes him squirm.

 

His breath is jagged, his eyes damp, and he finally sputters aggressively, “Because sooner or later you’re going to figure out I’m…that you’re…SHIT! That you can do so much fucking better than me. That you deserve to.” He drops like a stone, his head in his hands.

 

I’m paralyzed, his words hitting me harder than Hobbs’s bat. I’ve known for a long time that although most people discount him as unbearably arrogant, his bluster masks deep-seated insecurities…not even well much of the time. I knew he truly believed he was unworthy of love (motherfucking worthless piece of shit parents!). But to actually hear him say it, to realize that it’s not just this subconsciously motivating factor, but a living, breathing, active on the surface part of his psyche is possibly the most painful thing I’ve ever experienced. All my anger immediately disintegrates, and even if we’re together for the next fifty years, I know I’ll never love him more than I do at this moment.

 

He swallows excessively, utilizing every ounce of energy to fight back tears. I sit on his lap, straddling him on the chair, and slide my hands down his arms, wrapping them around my waist. I caress his face, his hair, and whisper his name lovingly, brushing my lips against his and nuzzling his nose with my own. He’s unsettlingly still, caught between his competing instincts to pull away and to lean into me.

 

“You are so pathetic. I figured that out years ago.” I smirk, and he hints at one as well. “The thing is, I don’t _want_ to do better than you. I just want to do you.” 

 

We smile faintly, tentatively at first, then with a soft laugh as we clutch each other. I shower his face with gentle kisses and murmur, “I love you, you fucking infuriating idiot.”

 

Our foreheads press together and his eyes are closed, the whole encounter taking something out of him, I suspect (I hope) permanently. Sighing heavily, he opens his eyes and pulls back enough to focus on mine. “I love you, too.” 

   

*************************

 

**Brian’s POV**   

 

The profusion of emotion racing through me, I’m quivering. He rises, pulling me up with him, and I’m altogether unnerved. I stand before him fully clothed feeling more exposed, more naked than I ever have without a stitch on. 

 

Holding me with his eyes, he ushers me toward the bedroom, one hand unbuttoning my shirt as we inch along, the other holding mine, fingers intertwined, his grip strong and sure. I note with relief that at least there’s no pity, no disillusionment, no philanthropy in his gaze. In fact, if anything it’s the opposite. I let him take the lead, lacking the energy to contribute, either physically or mentally. It’s as if we’ve fallen into one of those corny Disney role reversal flicks, with me as the virgin, floundering in new territory and him as the mentor, confident, in control, backed by a wealth of experience.

 

“I…” My voice barely registers.

 

He stops me with a kiss, gently shaking his head. “Tell me like this,” he kisses my fingertips, nipping and licking them. “And this,” he continues, kissing his way up my arm, sucking sensually at my bicep. “And this,” he breathes into my mouth, sliding his tongue across my lips, easing it past them.  

 

Most people would probably be surprised to learn that I’m typically the more tender lover. He tends to like it rough. But tonight he’s handling me like fragile cargo. Fuck, I feel fragile. Part of me wants him to take me, to completely abdicate all authority. But he won’t, sensing it’s crucial I maintain some form of dominance to prevent me from becoming completely dismantled.

 

Spooning, I hold him solidly against me with one arm, the other beneath his head, my hand grasping his, our fingers laced. With long, slow strokes, I slide almost totally out of him before pressing back in. He twists his neck to kiss me, his free hand guiding my head, his tongue gently running along my teeth, the roof of my mouth. Nothing hastens, just intensifies. This isn’t about getting off (who the fuck am I?). It’s about perpetuating an unsurpassable connection as long as possible, allowing it to heal our gaping wounds. Just like we did the night we first made love after the bashing. 

 

Our relationship has traveled a such steep staircase, each step elevating it to a new level. Being his port in the storm that was his asshole father, retrieving him from his first visit to the Big Apple, the prom, the bashing, establishing our rules, our post-Ian reunification, my Stockwell induced financial mess, my cancer, asking him to live together, finally telling him I love him, the proposal. I wonder how high it can go. I never imagined it could reach this height, so what’s next is a concept I can’t even conceive. I just know I want to keep climbing.

 

When we ultimately come, it’s less athletic than it is purely enveloping. I crush him to me, and he folds inward, his body sinking into mine. We huddle together, me still inside him, as much of our skin touching as is feasible. We settle in the warmth we've generated, and eventually fall asleep just that way.

 

The bell's been rung, and the main event seems to have ended in a stunning, unexpected knockout. Yet somehow I think we both won.


	15. 15 - Giving Thanks

  
Author's notes: After a few emotionally tormenting chapters, I thought we could all use one that's a little less "stomp on your heart."  


* * *

**Justin’s POV**   

The light streams through the window, resting upon my face, the warmth and the glow inviting me into the day. Apprehensive, I can’t help but speculate which Brian I’m going to encounter this morning. If he behaves as if yesterday’s grueling skirmish never happened, or worse, if he reverts to form and tosses me out the door, I’ll honestly go insane.  

I’m greatly inspired to sketch the scene before me -- the graceful drape of the gray-blue sheet cutting an angle over his waist, cascading across his sinewy back. I run my hand along the length of it, riveted by its contours, the play of light and shadow, the heat it’s radiating. Still sleeping, he rolls over and gathers me in his arms. That has to be a good sign. Right? My face snug against his chest, I place light kisses upon it. I love watching him sleep, the fearlessly unguarded state of his face. My urge to sketch him magnifies, but nothing, not even Madonna herself beckoning for me to join her on tour, could entice me to break free from him right now.

 

He blinks his way to semi-consciousness, orienting himself. Tilting his face to kiss me, he croaks, “Hey.”

 

“Hey.” I respond nervously. Rolling onto his back, he rubs his face with his hand, running it through his hair. There’s an air of unsteadiness about him, a distinct lack of his usual aplomb. I test the waters. “Are you o.k.?” He detests being coddled, but I figure I’ll risk it since last night was so extreme. 

 

He deliberates briefly, and I sense he’s still reeling a bit. Sighing, he confesses, “I’m not sure.”

 

I can’t believe it! No instant dismissal, no minimizing, no sarcasm, no posing. There must be quite a chill in hell!

 

My hand gently turning his face to me, assuring him with my eyes, I tell him, “I am.”

 

“As long as one of us is.” He plants another kiss on my lips, then gets up to pee.

 

There’s a gratifying calm in the air, and I breathe it in like perfume. The tension draining from my body, my mind wanders back to my conversation with Michael. Stretching, I slide open the nightstand drawer. It’s still there. Plucking out the velvet box, I pry it open and remove my ring, coated in his fingerprints. Christ, Brian, you certainly do like to torture yourself. As I begin to place it back in the box, my eye is drawn by a scratch on the interior. How did that…wait. It’s not a scratch. An inscription? We didn’t get inscriptions. Inspecting it, my heart simply ceases to beat. _For my prince_. 

 

Emerging from the bathroom he catches me, still captivated by the ring, and stops short. Then, as if trudging through quicksand, he lumbers toward the bed in slow motion.

 

“When did you do this?”

 

“It was supposed to be a surprise.”  
  


“It is.”

 

“At the wedding, I mean.”

 

“Was this here the night I left for New York.”

 

“Well I sure as hell didn’t do it after we called everything off.”

 

“Is that why you didn’t return them.”

 

Through a somber smile, he confides, “No, it’s not why.”

 

Every time I think I finally comprehend how much he actually loves me, something surfaces to prove I’ve completely underestimated it. It occurs to me that if I had noticed the inscription that last night, I might never have left. At this point, I’m torn about whether that would have been a good or bad thing. Although it could have saved us both immeasurable heartache, we may never have dealt with the shit we did yesterday.

 

“Can I have it?”

 

“You don’t have to ask. It belongs to you.”

 

Examining it again, my eyes begin to burn. No! I will not cry. I met my wimpy little faggot quota yesterday. But come on. I dare even the butchest fag to keep a dry eye under these circumstances. Those trashy romance novels always rhapsodize about a “wave of love” washing over the characters. Well, if there is such a thing, right now a fucking tsunami’s submerging me. I need to rethink last night’s epiphany that I would never love him more than in that precariously raw moment. Guess that theory was short lived.

 

He’s still hovering, and I realize he’s waiting for me to…I don’t know what. Just waiting for me to act, unsure of what comes next. Frankly, it’s bizarre seeing him so demure. It propels all of my protective instincts to the surface. Aching to restore him, I take his hand and pull him down onto the bed, onto me, sliding my arms under his, my hands snaking up his back to his shoulders, holding him firmly to me, coaxing him into our safety zone, to where we know what to do, who we are. Where everything’s….right. No matter what happens to us, individually or as a couple, we can always count on sex to be our oasis.

 

  

*************************

 

**Brian’s POV**

 

The short trip from the bathroom to the bed was alien, my footing funky, like walking across a moor, the ground spongy. This is definitely not how I envisioned him first seeing the inscription. I had hoped to give him the kind of sentimental spell he seems to crave, but shit happens, I guess. Anyway, he seems plenty sentimental about it, even if it doesn’t synch with the fantasy I’d constructed.

 

He pulls me down on top of him, and I kiss him deeply, hoping that by getting lost in him I can find some recognizable piece of myself. Breaking for a breather, I brush his hair out of his face and find the concern, patience, guidance that resided in his eyes earlier replaced with wanton desire. I flash back to our first time, how the fear, the excitement, the shock at the initial pain in his eyes evolved quickly into insatiable hunger. For an inexperienced young kid, he took to fucking like a duck to water, attacking me with at least as much fire as I did him. I wasn’t kidding when I told Michael he almost wore me out. Me! First time anyone had come close to keeping up. And he keeps on keeping up, his appetite as healthy as my own. Now, piercing me with his gaze, he licks his lips, his teeth sinking into the plump one on the bottom (fuck, that’s hot!), appearing every bit as ravenous as he did that night, and it consumes me. Diving down for another voracious kiss, I begin to feel familiar remnants of myself bubbling up.

 

Taking him with me, I tumble over, pinning myself beneath him. His tongue extends, reaching like a child catching snowflakes, licking at my open mouth like a lollipop, his tongue flicking in sensually, tip fluttering against mine. I initiate what I wanted last night but wasn’t ready to handle, grabbing a condom and handing it to him, growling into his ear, “Fuck me.”

 

“Are you sure?” he checks.

 

I answer by wrapping my long legs around him, rubbing my heels along his back, licking a strong, slow line up his neck. He expels a harsh breath, accepting the invitation with gusto. Assaulting my chest, he works his way down my body. No slow, sensual undertaking, he’s devouring me, my rib cage, my stomach, my sides. Arriving at the border of my pubic hair, he detours right, wriggling his tongue along the edge, drifting to my thigh, demonically circling my inflamed, rigid cock while attending to his own. Heading south, he kisses my knees as he finagles his arms beneath them, lifting and spreading as he licks the tender interior of my thigh, returning northward. He’s still yet to touch my cock, my balls, and I’m barely resisting the impulse to beg. Just as I’m about to relent, he engulfs me in his mouth, causing my back to bow sharply. Sucking it briefly, he abandons it for my sac (I think he’s afraid if he didn’t, I’d be done before he even begins! He might be right.), sucking my balls in before propelling them out with a pop. Ever the artist, he next tickles the underside, his tongue painting a wondrous picture on the hypersensitive flesh. My knees still hooked over his shoulders, he raises up, spreading me open. The dizzying journey his tongue has embarked upon continues, sliding around to my exposed hole. He teases, grazing the puckered flesh repeatedly. I cry out as he finally penetrates me, his curled tongue pushing and twisting. It’s vehemently stabbing and retreating, his wet lips opening and closing while he sucks and nips, kissing my ass as if it were my mouth. I grab my knees and pull them into my chest, easing his access, anxious to do anything to prolong this magnificent torture. First one, then two, then oh…oh….three fingers work me into a frenzy, entering me before he crooks them, setting stars dancing before me.

 

I can’t take it anymore. “Fuck me!” I bellow, near hysteria.

 

Dropping his right shoulder to guide himself, my left leg slips from its perch. I grunt at the initial pinch, the burn, and he hesitates, letting me adjust. Then he begins to thrust, shallow, almost timid at first, but quickly gaining depth and speed. My own hips rock, and my fingers longingly seek my cock.

 

Abruptly, he folds himself in half, slurping my cock into his mouth, eliciting a sharp gasp. His pelvic rhythm becomes erratic as he bobs his head deftly, inflating the effect of the dual sensations. I’m moaning in tiny, staccato bursts that become shorter, closer together, increasing in pitch until they meld into a steady, emphatic whine. 

 

His hand slithers up my stomach, rubbing an erect nipple, and combined with the jerky entry and withdrawal of his dick in my ass and unfaltering motion of his jouncing head…holy…it’s too much…too fucking much… Demands fly from my mouth, but they’re utterly unintelligible. I don’t even know what I’m pleading for him to do. To continue? To stop? I’m so far gone I can’t formulate a thought. I just know I need relief before I become deranged. My eyes roll back in my head, and I hear myself pant heavily, sounding like Lindsey practicing her Lamaze, my digging fingers leaving white hand prints on his already alabaster thighs.

 

His hand replaces his mouth on my dick, and he straightens up, retrieving one of my legs to align against his torso for leverage. He rams me harder, faster, deeper, his pumping fist becoming a blur. Holy shit! I can’t breathe. My blood pounding in my head is like a drum, hammering a cadence into my brain -- oh-fuck-oh-fuck-oh-fuck-oh-fuck! The room resonates with my blissful wail, “Ahhhhh…. ahhhhhh… yeah… yeah, keep going… keep guunnghhhhhh!” Convulsing, I grasp wildly at his chest, the sheets, anything within my reach as my muscles constrict violently around him, my palpitating dick spewing an ample load across my chest. 

 

Planting his hand, smearing my cum, he leans forward and tries to thrust, but still tremoring, I’m closed around him so securely he’s essentially trapped. I drop my leg to his side and he falls on top of me, his hands sliding under my back, biting my left pec as he comes into the condom, a thunderous groan rumbling out of him. Both twitching and huffing, I squeeze him to me while he kisses my shoulder.

 

Rolling off of me, he collapses, and the emptiness he leaves behind is all the explanation I need for why he always wants me to stay inside him. I declare, “That was, without a doubt, one of our top ten lovemaking sessions.”

 

“That wasn’t love. _That_ was fucking,” he breathlessly jokes.

 

My forearm dropping onto his chest, I report, “It was love to me.”

 

“It…you…” he stutters, too dumbfounded to speak.

 

“What? You think you’re the only one who can regurgitate other peoples’ words back at them?”

 

That snaps him out of his romantic reverie. He smacks my arm, laying across him. “Regurgitate? Gross! Way to kill a moment.”

 

“I don’t want to spoil you. You’ll start expecting this mushy crap all the time. I prefer a schedule more akin to, say, a solar eclipse. Or locusts. Maybe even Halley’s comet.”

 

Laughing, he flops on top of me and puts his hands around my throat. “I’d strangle you if it wouldn’t make you a lot less fun to fuck.” Then he kisses me, hard.

 

As he rises, I inquire, “Where are you going?”

 

“To shower. I’ve got to get over to Debbie’s.”

 

“Jesus Christ! It’s not even noon. What the fuck time is she serving dinner?”

 

“Not for dinner. I said I’d help Emmett move furniture to make room for everyone. Michael and Ben were supposed to do it, but obviously that’s not an option now. Michael won’t even let him lift a glass to sip from a straw.”

 

“That’s Mikey for you. For such an auspicious occasion, it wouldn’t do if your back wasn’t squeaky clean. I’d better assist you as you bathe.”

 

“Always so willing to lend a hand.”

 

“I’ll lend both. And then some.” I find a hidden store of energy, leaping up to chase my prey. 

 

After returning his earlier favor, I dry off and crash back onto the bed, thoroughly spent.

 

Tying his sneakers, he asks, “Still planning on going hunting?”

 

“Excuse me? Hunting?” 

 

“For some turkeys…to stuff.” He wiggles his eyebrows at me.

 

“Is that a trick question?”

 

We both laugh at the pun, but he does propose, “No. It’s o.k. if you want to. I think we should just go back to our old rules. At least for the time being. We’ll figure things out later.”

 

“Are you sure you’re o.k. with that?”

 

“Go be Brian Kinney. Whatever that means for you right now.” Giving it a final attempt, he prods, “It’s not too late to change your mind and come to Debbie’s.”

 

I scrunch my nose, “Ehhh. I don’t think so.”

 

“Suit yourself.” He leans over to kiss me goodbye. “Just don’t forget, I’m not the only person who loves you. If you need a reminder, you know where we’ll all be.”

 

  

*************************

 

**Debbie’s POV**

 

How the fuck am I going to pull this off? Our little family is expanding faster than my waist after I abandoned that bullshit diet. Michael now has Ben and Hunter, Lindsay and Melanie involve the kids, if I want Sunshine here I have to include Jennifer, Tucker and Molly, Ted comes with Blake, and on and on and on. Holy fucking shit! Cooking for sixteen isn’t the issue. I could cook for the entire national PFLAG membership without breaking a sweat. It’s fitting the whole mess of them in this house! Even with all the furniture out of the way, it’s going to be tighter than a virgin’s ass.

 

“Emmett, be careful of my figurines! Hold the box by the bottom, or you could break every last one of them.”

 

He mumbles, “We should be so lucky.”

 

“I heard that!” I shoot Carl the evil eye for his stifled laugh.

 

“Sorry,” Emmett repents.

 

The door swings open, and my little ray of sunshine beams in. “Sunshine!” I exclaim, running to smother him with a hug.

 

I think he replies, “Hi, Deb,” but his mouth is squashed against me, so it just comes out, “Hrmm, Mpfff.”

 

“Hi, baby!” Emmett buzzes. “Did you find your man the other night?”

 

Justin nods, rebounding, “Did you?”

 

“You know it.” They exchange a high five. Inside joke, I guess.

 

“Are you two going to stand around all day and gloat about your latest conquests? Everyone’s going to be here soon, so get to work. Emmett packed up all of the breakables so you guys can move stuff without worrying.”

 

The three of them titter, tipping me off that they wouldn’t worry even if the whole collection got smashed. Hey! My crap’s got character. Fuck ‘em if they can’t appreciate good taste.

 

I hope nobody swipes my furniture. Since we have nowhere to store it, we’re just plopping it on the front lawn. It looks like a fuckin’ dump. But at least we managed to squeeze enough card tables and chairs in here to accommodate everyone, although mingling is going to be a hardship. Carl offered to rent out a hall or something, but I was adamant that a holiday celebration belongs in a home. Still, he’s such a doll for thinking of it. 

 

Justin’s fixated on the tables, looking perturbed. “What’s wrong?” I wonder aloud.

 

“We only set up for sixteen.”

 

“Shit! Who the fuck did I forget?”

 

I run through the list of guests, and he offers, “You left out Brian.”

 

Poor Sunshine. Always the optimist. “I wouldn’t count on him showin’ up. He avoids these gatherings like the plague under normal circumstances. I don’t want to make you feel guilty or anything, ‘cause I think you’re doing just what you should be, but since you started seeing your new boyfriend he’s been especially scarce. Besides, he knows you’ll be here. You saw what a hard time he had around you at the hospital.” 

 

“You never know,” he suggests, hopeful. “He could change his mind.”

 

“Well, don’t worry, honey. If he turns up, we’ll find a place for him…somewhere.”

 

Slowly but surely, the gang trickles in, yapping and catching up. JR’s grown so much I burst into tears when I first see her. Fucking politicians! Some day soon we’ll have to get them to change the stupid law so the girls can bring my granddaughter back home.

 

“Everybody ready to stuff themselves silly?” I call over the din as the food is ready. Who needs a fucking dinner bell when you’ve got me? 

 

Just as the crowd shuffles to squeeze into their seats, I hear the hum of conversation fade. Pivoting to see what’s turned the party upside down, I’m as shocked as the rest of them.

 

“Don’t stop the festivities on my account,” Brian scoffs, suddenly the center of attention. Gus morphs into a projectile, hurling himself at his father. One by one, he greets us all with hug or a pat on the arm. But all the while his eyes are locked on Justin, who’s equally as enthralled. The air in the room is as thick as the gravy I’m setting down, nobody moving a muscle, anticipating some sort of combustion or other.

 

Brian sets Gus down and approaches Justin, who has wheeled around, adjusting place settings so another will fit in. The whole pack is looking down or away, mumbling senseless dialogue, giving piss poor impressions of disinterested parties. Maneuvering over to the table, Brian hugs Justin from behind. Justin’s hand glides up to pet his face, pressing his head against Brian’s cheek. I let out a little puff of relief. I’m not sure what the fuck is up with these two, but at least it’s not going to be ugly. Brian jerks his head, motioning to Justin to follow him outside.

 

The second the door clicks shut, the stagnate crowd erupts into chaos, everybody scrambling, knocking into tables, chairs, each other, jockeying for space at the window. Everybody, that is, except Jennifer. Her nonchalant reaction pretty much gives away where Sunshine’s been spending the night since he got home.

 

It doesn’t matter that I’m not among them, pressed against the glass like kids at an aquarium, because they so graciously take turns offering a full play by play. 

 

“Damn! Does anybody read lips?” Ted begs.

 

Emmett coos, “I do. But I have to use mine to do it!”  Ted whacks him.

 

Ben notes, “Well, whatever they’re saying, it looks like they’re pretty happy about it.”

 

“Whoa! Yeah, I’d say they look happy.” Mel adds.

 

A potpourri of giggles, gasps, and “Awwww”s filter through the house. Guess it doesn’t matter I took the TV upstairs. We’ve apparently got live fucking entertainment. 

 

“How do they breathe? They haven’t come up for air once,” pipes a perplexed young voice. Heads whip around, realizing Molly’s getting quite an eyeful. 

 

Ted taps his nose, while Emmett exclaims, “Oh, honey, kissing is the least of the activities that can make breathing tricky.” 

 

“Emmett!” Jennifer screeches, horrified.

 

Recognizing his faux pas, he gushes, “Swimming! I was referring to swimming, sweetie.”

 

“I’m thirteen, not mentally challenged,” she snipes, not buying a word. Yeah, thirteen and a Taylor kid. My money’s on her being as precocious as her brother.

 

“Shit!” Ted exclaims, sounding extremely upset.

 

Jennifer and I jump, “What?”

 

He explains, “They fell onto the sofa, and the back of it is facing the window. We can’t see a fucking thing. Nice of you to furnish the lawn for them. It adds such a homey touch.”

 

“Be glad we didn’t have to put any of the beds out there,” Emmett cracks. “Just imagine…”

 

“Since when do they need a bed?” Lindsay quips.

 

Blake warns, “They’re headed back in!”

 

The earlier frantic jostling reverses, everyone diving back into the room, assuming supposedly natural social poses. 

 

Laughing, the lovebirds meander in, Brian chastising, “It’s not one way glass, dickheads. The rule generally is if you can see us, we can see you.”

 

“Did you have to put on a show in my mother’s front yard?” Michael grouses.

 

“We were just kissing,” Justin responds indignantly.

 

“And feeling each other up,” Molly helpfully contributes.

 

“…and down.” Ted completes.

 

“Give me a break, Mikey. It’s not like I fucked him.”

 

“Brian!” several of us scold, pointing toward Molly and Gus.

 

“I hate to interrupt your little matinee, but it’s time to eat,” I offer, taking some of the heat off of them. They’ve been through enough.

 

Nothing makes me happier than the clamor of a full house. I’m like a pig in shit as we eat and laugh and talk, sharing stories about New York and Toronto, a case of Carl’s that was a hoot, some strange crap Jennifer found in a house her client just put on the market. I abandon my customary banter and sit quietly for a while, silently offering a heartfelt prayer of thanks for my extraordinary, fucked up family, with a special burst of gratitude that Ben is here to enjoy this with us and taking a moment to mourn that Vic isn’t. 

 

Throughout the meal, it’s impossible not to notice Justin and Brian, full throttle back to acting like fucking newlyweds. Exchanging constant looks and touches and kisses, Brian managing to eat the entire god damned meal with one arm, the other permanently planted around Justin’s shoulders. They even feed each other a few times, sucking on each others’ fingers as they eat from one another’s hands. Jesus Christ! You know, you could suffer some serious whiplash watching the back and forth between these two! I visually check on Michael a few times. It’s habit. But he seems o.k. for the most part. Even so, there’s still a glimmer of hurt I don’t think will ever completely disappear. Looks like Lindsay’s got it too. If only Brian could bottle whatever the fuck it is that induces so much undying desire for him, the shithead could be richer than Trump.

 

Of course, they’re not the only lovebirds in the mix. Melanie and Lindsey seem to be pretty solid, Michael’s doting over Ben, Ted and Blake are fuckin’ adorable, Tucker is clearly a goner for Jen, and even Carl keeps reaching over to hold my hand or give me a little peck. Poor Emmett. He’s the only one left not paired up, tricks notwithstanding. We’ve all got to get to work on that for him. 

 

Once we’re all in sufficient pain from overstuffing, we fold some of the tables up so we can gather around more comfortably. Before joining the group, I decide to pull Justin into the kitchen for a private confab.

 

“What’s up?” he asks.

 

“You know I couldn’t love you more if you were my own kid. I love all you boys. You’re family.”

 

“I know, Deb,” he assures me, giving my hand a squeeze.

 

“So when one of my boys is hurting, I gotta speak up.”

 

“I appreciate you looking out for me, but I’m not hurting. I’m fine.”

 

“I know you are, Sunshine.” My free hand pats the top of his. “You always land on your feet.”

 

Confused, he squints and tilts his head at me.

 

Looking down, I mull over how best to get into this. “Do you remember the night you showed up at my door soaked to the bone, asking if your old room was still available?”

 

“Of course.”

 

“Well, that night I called Brian and told him to get his ass over to Woody’s. I really laid into him about how he was treating you. Told him I didn’t want you hurt. And I forced him to admit that he loved you.”

 

“What? He…he actually…” He’s frozen at the thought.

 

“He didn’t say it, of course. You would have felt the earth open up. But I backed him into a corner, told him to tell me the truth, that he loved you, and he had no answer. Couldn’t deny it, couldn’t look me in the eye. He just had that face. The one Michael always got when he watched him go off with some trick. Or you. That fucking lovesick puppy dog face that shows his guts are being mangled. I knew that’s as much of a confession as I’d get from him. At least then. He was traumatized. Some persistent kid sliced right through that supposedly impenetrable armor he worked so hard his whole life to build. It scared the fucking shit out of him.”

 

“Debbie…”

 

“Let me finish. All these years I was so worried about him hurting you. But I was stupid. ‘Cause you get it, Sunshine. You and Michael, you grew up loved. You always had somewhere to turn. A safe place to go. It makes you strong. Brian never had that. From the time he met Michael, he would spend most of his time here. He adopted me as kind of a second mother.”

 

“Who doesn’t?”

 

He’s right. I love that. Anyway… “But it’s not the same as having your own mom in your corner. My first concern was and will always be Michael, and he knew that.” I feel bad about that. Nothing could ever change it, but it still makes me sad for him. “You see, all that time I was so worried about him hurting you, I really should have been worrying about you hurting him. Sure, he could hurt you, but it wouldn’t destroy you.” I lower my voice, leaning closer to him, scanning the room quickly to make sure nobody’s being nosy. “On the other hand, sweetie, you can hurt him in ways I don’t think he’ll ever recover from.” 

 

The weight of that seems to hit him. “The last thing I want to do is hurt him.”

 

“I know that. And I’m not sayin’ you’ve been wrong to do it, but every time you leave it’s like a part of him dies. If you’re back together for good, I’m fuckin’ thrilled. For both of you. I think it’s wonderful. But if you’re not… Just try to be sure, because I don’t know if he could take you leaving again. He’ll still be a huge fucking success in business. He’ll still strut down Liberty Avenue like a cocky asshole who owns the place. He’ll act like he’s just fine and dandy, and that’s what most people around him will see. He’ll survive, because he’s a survivor. He’s tough. He’s had to be. But he won’t _live_. His heart will get harder than his cock ever did.”

 

He smiles at the analogy. I do have some colorful ways of putting things, if I do say so myself. “I understand,” he attests. He leans over to kiss my cheek. “I’m really glad you’re looking out for him too. Sometimes I feel like everybody’s automatically on my side, ready to jump on him for every little thing. I know it sounds strange, but I hate it.”

 

God, I love this kid. “I know it’s hard for you, the way he is. I don’t know how you put up with it to be honest. I guess he grew up feeling so unwanted by everyone who mattered, his ego needs to feel like now he’s wanted by everyone. There’s no denying, though, that he’s got a good heart, as much as he tries to hide that fact.”

 

Brian traipses over to us, wrapping an arm across Justin’s chest and snuggling up to him. “What are you ladies gossiping about?”

 

“You,” Justin tells him, grinning widely. As they join the others, I shoot Justin a look that says “remember what we talked about.” He nods subtly to assure me he will.

 

I sit back before I follow them, savoring the moment. How many times does life give you a slice of time when everyone you love’s happiness coincides? Am I giving thanks? You bet your ass I am!

 

   

*************************

 

**Brian’s POV**   

The club is surprisingly crowded for a holiday evening. We invade the dance floor as an army: Ted, Blake, Emmett, some hapless musclehead he hijacked on our way in, Lindsey, Melanie, Justin and I. Mikey had to take the professor home to rest. Two songs in, Lonny, my head bartender, waves me over. Announcing, “I’ll be right back,” I dash off to deal with whatever the fuck Lonny needs. 

I answer the questions Lonny corralled me about and wind my way back through the crowd. A scalding hot number wiggles up to Justin and slithers his arms around his waist, grabbing his ass and squeezing. I’m there in two long, quick strides. With a hearty slap to Justin’s shapely derriere, primarily swatting the offending hands and grabbing his ass with my own, I say, “Sorry, Romeo. This seat is taken.”  

Shaking his hands from the sting of my slap, he sneers, “Don’t be greedy, Kinney. You have a whole warehouse full of playthings here.”

 

I wrap my arms possessively around Justin from behind, his hands reflexively grasping them. “Then you shouldn’t have any trouble finding something else to your liking. This one’s mine.” Justin pulls my arms tighter around himself, leaning back into me as I kiss his neck with a loud smack. Even without everyone else’s reactions, I wouldn’t have needed to see Justin’s face to know he was beaming. 

 

“Why don’t you just stick a flag in me, claiming me in the name of King Kinney?” he taunts.

 

As I drag him cheerfully toward the VIP lounge, I assure him, “I’ve got something to stick in you, Sunshine, but it’s no flag.” 


	16. 16 - The Medal Podium

  
Author's notes: I had a little fun with this one.  


* * *

**Brian's POV**

I'm running around the office when I hear Justin's ring commandeer my cell. Before I can speak I hear him pout, "I'm not waiting until Christmas."

"Hi. I'm great too, thanks for asking."

"I mean it."

"It's less than a month away, and then you'll be here for over a week. Besides, I thought Gregory had you jumping through hoops."

"Fuck him. Fuck the galleries. Fuck the clients."

"That's a lot of fucking. Sounds like you're going to be a busy boy."

"Shut up."

"For Christ's sake, you just went back four days ago."

"Four days, seven hours, and thirty two minutes."

"You've got to be fucking kidding me!"

Pausing, he admits, "I made that up."

I crack up, telling him, "Patience is a virtue, Sunshine."

"What the fuck would you know about virtue?"

"I've heard of it. I think my mother's minister said something about it while I was ploughing my dick into his ass." 

That lightens him up, briefly. "This sucks."

"And not…," he joins me, "…in a life affirming way."

"I told you, I have to pull this Bally shit together before New Year's, and all my clients are breathing down my neck with demands for holiday promotions. There's no way I can take the time to come down."

"Then I'll come home again."

"Do what you want. But I have to warn you I'll be working seven days a week, probably fifteen hours a day."

"Is business really that good?"

"Better."

"Why don't you hire more people?"

"I've brought on several already. It's not easy finding top level talent in this podunk town."

"You never complained before," he teases.

"Different kind of talent."

In true drama princess fashion, he sighs heavily. "I'm not waiting until Christmas."

"Are you on a loop, or am I in some freaky time travel vortex?"

"Don't be surprised if I show up at your door."

"Don't be surprised if I'm not there when you do. Later."

"Later."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Bleary eyed, I stare at the computer screen. I'm so exhausted I can't even tell what's genius and what's crap anymore. Phenomenal success is a bitch. Relieved for interruption, I answer my ringing cell phone, noticing as I do that it's nearly midnight. Shit.

"I'm not waiting until Christmas."

"This is getting old."

"I'm not."

"You're not getting old? I hate to tell you, but twinks age just like everybody else. Myself being the exception, of course."

"Of course. Do I ever get to graduate from twinkdom?"

"Nope. It's your lot in life. Deal with it."

The momentary topic diversion doesn't last long. "I'm not waiting."

"Christ! You're worse than Gus. I don't have time for this shit. Hold on a second," I snap at him as Cynthia buzzes me on the intercom.

"Brian, I'm taking off for the night. I'll see you tomorrow. Tom, Rich, and Lydia all said they'd be in by nine, but Rich wanted me to remind you he can't come in on Sunday. Oh, and there's someone here to see you."

Now? "Who the fuck is deluded enough to think I'll take an unscheduled meeting at midnight on a Friday?"

"Some twink," I hear him say as he strolls through my door, cell phone to his ear.

"I have to go," I say into the phone. "I have to handle some lunatic who just barged into my office."

Slipping the phone into his pocket, he says, "Mission accomplished. Getting you to handle me was my goal." We meet midway, sinking into a contented kiss. "I told you I wouldn't wait," he smirks, backing me up until I tumble onto the couch. He pounces on top of me, leering at me like I'm a porterhouse and he's a lion who hasn't eaten in a month.

"This may be a first, but I think I'm too tired to fuck you. Tell you what, I'll just lay here and you can ride me like that horse contraption Gus loves in front of the market. I won't even charge you."

His expression changes as he evaluates me. "You look like shit."

"Your pillow talk could use some improvement."

"Have you been using chemical assistance to keep up this pace?" he interrogates, distressed.

"No, Dr. Taylor. I've been a good boy," I assure him, miming crossing my heart. "Don't worry about me. I'm invincible."

"I know you like to think so, but your body needs sleep. You'll get more done and do a better job if you get sufficient rest."

I laugh. "What would I do without your PSAs? Is that the same logic you used to conclude that going out dancing helped you study for your SATs?"

"I got 1500, didn't I?"

"True. O.k., you win. Take me home and have your way with me there."

" _After_ a solid eight hours' rest."

I roll my eyes, grumbling despite the fact there's a part of me that likes his nurturing. It's…comforting. It appears my conversion to lesbianism is complete. Fuck it. I'm too tired to care. I haven't felt this worn out since I was in radiation. I let him drive back to the loft, afraid I might fall asleep at the wheel and kill us both. He undresses me and puts me to bed, and I'm out before he can even climb in beside me.

   

*************************

**Justin's POV**   

I awaken to the distinct sensation that I'm being watched. My eyes ease open to Brian, propped up on his elbows, studying me as if I'm a sculpture in a gallery.  

"What?" I ask self consciously, wiping my mouth with my forearm. "Was I drooling?" He just smiles faintly. "Snoring?"

He reaches one arm over me, leans on his elbow and hovers, his face mere inches from mine, his fingers worming their way in, twirling my hair. I know he likes it slightly grown out like this, the way I wore it just before I left, because he touches it so much more (and uses it to grab onto while we're fucking, which is probably why I keep it like this if I'm honest with myself). He presses his forehead and nose against mine and mutters, "I owe you an answer."

"Huh?"

He recedes, regarding me with a sweetness a chosen few of us ever get to witness. "You asked me a question…actually, to be accurate you queened out, demanding a response. But you were right, you're entitled to one."

Confused, I wait for him to elaborate. His fingers continue their swirling immersion in my hair as he lowers his face and nuzzles me with his nose.

"Justin…"

I audibly gulp. He so rarely addresses me directly by name. It's always by some term of endearment: Sunshine, you little shit, something like that. Using it now, like this, produces such an overpoweringly intimate mood. 

"It wasn't just for you." Afraid that if I move a hair he'll bolt like a skittish animal, I literally hold my breath. Dancing an airy kiss across my lips, he continues, "You said I don't tell you what I want, but I do. I told you a long time ago that what I want is to come home to you. Just because I didn't repeat it ad nauseum doesn't mean…" He stops, intentionally reverting his increasingly defensive tone back to affectionate and reassuring. "I've never changed my mind about that. Not once. I never will." 

There's only our two bodies and the few inches between our faces in the universe. Nothing else exists for me. Only us and the flood of emotion welling up in my chest. 

"If you need to hear the words, then I'll say them. I'll tell you that I'm so fucking deep in love with you that I feel like I'm drowning. That what I want more than anything is to sleep beside you every night and wake up with you every morning. To have you be the first person I come to when something amazing or shitty happens. Did I get that right?"

"Close enough." I smile, my eyes unabashedly glassy, my hands skimming the intoxicatingly smooth skin of his back. "So are saying you _want_ to get married?"

He sighs, constructing his answer carefully. "I'm saying I want _you_. Look, I can't tell you that I'll ever relish monogamy, that I'll ever even comprehend the desire for it. It's just fucking. It's enjoyable and keeps life interesting. Fun. Unpredictable. It doesn't have anything to do with you, with ‘us.' It's supposed to be another one of those benefits fags get by not having women in the mix. Men, or at least most men, understand it means nothing more than getting off. It sure as shit never has to me." His eyes bear down, surveying me in a way that makes my internal organs tingle. Both hands still playing deliciously in my hair, his voice is hushed as he adds, "Except with you."

How does he all of a sudden know exactly the right things to say to me? Where has that skill been for the past six fucking years?

He leans in and kisses me lightly, stroking my face with the backs of his fingers. "Do you know why I didn't even try to negotiate your no trick twice rule?" 

"Because you were head over heels in love with me and desperate to get me back?" He glowers, but doesn't deny it. He can't. We both know it's the truth.

"Because that's how I always operated anyway. With the exception of a few rare occasions, I never went back for seconds. Let alone thirds, fourths. You're the only person I think I've ever fucked more than two or three times, total. Christ, the first month I knew you I fucked you more than my top three most frequent tricks combined. You know me. Once I've had someone, I've had them. On to the next. But with you, all these years and hundreds, hell, probably thousands of fucks later…" he laughs to himself. "Do you know you can still make me hard from across the room?"

"I know," I admit smugly, sinking my teeth gently into his chin, then releasing it to snuggle against his neck.

"So, if I need to sacrifice…"

"Don't use that word. It has such a negative connotation, like you're forfeiting something valuable without gaining a thing in return. My mom says what we called sacrifice is really just prioritizing, choosing what matters most."

"Can we please not invoke your mother's name while we're in bed?" he shudders. 

I laugh, agreeing. "I think I can adhere to that."

"Anyway, if I have to _choose_ between a never-ending parade of hot tricks or you, there's no contest."

"There never was a contest," I observe sadly. "You chose the tricks."

He looks pained at the statement, but again, he can't argue the truth. He rests his head on mine once more, closing his eyes. It's his apology. I guess there are some things he still can't bring himself to say. Instead he counters, "Not always. Less and less all the time. I mean, you got so fucking upset over the syphilis thing, but if you think about…"

"The _syphilis thing_?" I repeat, still amazed at how he minimizes it.

"Whatever," he dismisses, eager to make his point. "When my little quarantine was over, I was at the club and so fucking horny I could barely function. I could have simply grabbed the first hot guy I saw and fucked the shit out of him, but it honestly didn't even enter my mind. I was just looking forward to coming home and fucking you. Until I got here, of course, and you started in on me."

No need to fear he's changed beyond recognition. There's the old asshole I fell in love with. "You're blaming me for not jumping up and down with gratitude and glee that for one night you selected me over some random trick?"

"That's what I'm saying. It wasn't one night. You were so focused on the times I did trick that you never seemed to notice how much that particular activity was dwindling. I'm fully aware that in most people's estimation it would still be considered… considerable. But comparatively, for me at least…" He trails off, unsure how to properly conclude his argument. Taking another crack at it, he spits, "Or like at that fucking stag party," exhibiting how much venom he feels for that fateful event that started the whole no-wedding ball rolling. "You thought I was ‘behaving myself' for your sake, but that wasn't it. I wasn't tempted in the least by our little dancing friend. O.k, not so little, but... I just wanted come home, goof about it, and fuck _you_."

Oh, for Christ's sake! "Why didn't you say that?" God, he's the most frustrating man!

"I did. You didn't believe me." In retrospect, I suppose he did, referring to himself as a _hungry but happy man_. Claiming  _I'm content to take my winnings and go home_. Although had has to admit my skepticism was hardly unwarranted.

"My concerns weren't just about that night, though. As the wedding got closer, you got more and more, I don't know, subdued. You didn't seem like yourself."

He shrugs noncommittally. "Maybe it was just that so much shit was going on at once. There was the bomb, and Michael being hurt, Lindsay leaving. With Gus. And, I suppose, freaking out a little that my life was moving in a direction I never imagined I'd even contemplate."

"Like you said, you were so ‘fervently and passionately committed' to your stance about marriage or anything remotely resembling it. You must realize why it didn't fully register you'd legitimately done a complete and total one-eighty. But the bomb really did make you see things differently, like I did after I was bashed, didn't it?"

A little taken aback, he sputters, "Michael should audition for fucking CNN."

"Michael didn't tell me that. You did." He looks confused. "The day you had that fight with him about me, I was still on the phone. I heard everything."

Anxiety spreads across his face as he scrambles to remember what else was said, but then he lets it go. "Remember that dream I told you I had the night of the bombing? That I went to Michael's funeral, but I was the one in the coffin, not him." I nod, recalling the utter torture of that day in my studio when he first proposed, dying to throw my arms around him and accept, to believe he could really mean it, but certain it was a temporary transformation in wake of the incident. Determined to appear…normal. Casual. "I'm the last person to buy into psychobabble bullshit, the last one to even entertain the concept, but that dream… When I heard the broadcast about the explosion, part of me _did_ die. From the time I heard it until I saw you alive and unhurt, those were the worst fucking moments of my life. Except maybe in that god forsaken garage…" his voice cracks and he shivers, squeezing his eyes shut, evicting the painful memories from his mind. "But the second I saw you, god, it was like I'd been held under water and I'd finally surfaced. But everything was different. _I_ was different. Irrevocably. Jesus, would you fucking listen to me? How much more evidence could you possibly require than shit like this flying out of my mouth?" 

I coo, "Or shit like ‘I'm taking a chance on love.'" He blushes, ducking his face into the crook of my neck. Yes indeed. Brian Kinney, bashful and embarrassed. Notify the tabloids! I think it might be the cutest fucking thing I've ever seen. I also think it's best if I don't share that sentiment with him. He may have changed "irrevocably", but there are limits. I kiss his head to ease the sting. "Don't. I love that you said it. You have no idea how much. It's just…you can't even tell me you love me for five fucking years, and then you jump headlong into declarations like telling me I'm your prince, buying a god damned mansion in the country, and all the rest." I squeeze him tightly, grinning blissfully. "Everything with you has to be a grandiose gesture."

"Hey, I don't do small." He looks down toward our dicks, tickled by his own innuendo. 

"That you don't," I confirm, rubbing my leg against his.

Squirming playfully, he volunteers, "Like I said, I don't really get it. But I don't have to. If monogamy is what you need from me to be happy…"

"It's not." He frowns dubiously, so I explain, "There's a big difference between what I want and what I need. I need to know that the man I love isn't trading his own happiness in exchange for mine. I need him to let me be my own man and support the decisions I make about my life, not make them for me." I lift my head and kiss him. "I need to know that you love me."

"I thought you did."

"True, you show me. All the time. But as much as you don't get this either, I do need to hear the words. I'm not asking you convert to Emmettism, constantly gushing, but maybe every once in a great while..." I can see in his eyes it's sinking in. "The rest of it, like monogamy, falls under the category of what I want, not what I need." Debbie's theory revisits me: _I guess he grew up feeling so unwanted by everyone who mattered, his ego needs to feel like now he's wanted by everyone._ "When you talk about tricking, you always say it's about getting your ‘needs' met. I believe, for whatever your reasons, that you really do need it. So I won't ask you not to. Anyway, if I did, you'd make me that promise and I know you'd keep it, ending up miserable, resenting me. That's a disaster waiting to happen. But I do want to add another rule."

"Uh oh."

I throw him a shut-the-fuck-up glare, presenting, "When you're out by yourself, do what you need to do. But if we're out together, we're together. No ditching me on the dance floor to stalk off to a back room for a blow job, or ducking into the coat closet to fuck the waiter. No third party, unless we both agree to be a part of the party."

"Do I still have to be home by three?"

He's asking my permission? Heh. Yeah, I've got him. Considering it, I propose, "Not when we're in different cities. Me either." Instinctually I realize it's wise not to inform him I don't really trick unless we're broken up.

"Are you sure you'll be happy going back to this arrangement? You weren't before."

"Before, you hadn't proposed. You hadn't even actually _told_ me you loved me. It's different now. I know you'd be willing to give it up if I asked, that you'd be willing to do anything. So I can live with it."

"But it's not what you want."

"Stop it. Stop thinking you're robbing me of something. Nobody gets _everything_ they want." My hands grazing the sides of his face, I drive home the fact, "You give me what I want the most." 

"You mean this?" he suggests provocatively, guiding my hand to his cock.

Laughing, I grouse, "Once again you prove you're the master of killing the moment."

"What can I say? I'm an asshole."

"Lucky for you, I'm a big queer. Assholes are my weakness." My hands glide down his back, on a journey to illustrate my point.

   

*************************

**Michael's POV**   

"G'morning!" I chirp, greeting Emmett and Ted as I slide into the booth. They respond in kind, inquiring about Ben. "It seems my constant fussing is driving him nuts, but I can't help myself. I keep thinking how close I came to losing him…again. And how long will it be before the next time."

Emmett gives me a big bear hug as Ted reaches across and squeezes my hand. Neither says anything, but then again, what is there to say? It's not like they can tell me I'm being paranoid. 

I take a deep breath, composing myself. "Anyway, I thought maybe I'd give him a little space. "Where's Blake?"

"He's working. It's crunch time for him. A lot of his clients need a little extra support during the holidays." 

"So it's just us, like old times!" Emmett beams. "Which means, we need a burning question of the day. I know! Answer me this -- Greg or Peter Brady?"

I jump in immediately, "It depends. Then or now?"

Emmett agrees, modifying his query. "You're right. Critical detail. Because I have to say, then, Greg. Or shall I say Johnny Bravo. Yum-my! But have you seen them lately? Little Peter Brady done growed up nice. Mmmm hmmm."

"But he's so neurotic," warns Ted, cracking us up. Hello, kettle? Meet pot.

"We're not discussing having afternoon tea with the man, Teddy."

"I'm with Em," I agree. "He's in great shape for someone his age."

"Um, guys," Ted interrupts. "Isn't he only a year or so older than me?" Emmett and I exchange a quick OOPS look.

Emmett kindly diverts us. "Oh! I have another one, but a little closer to home. Which of your play dates tops your ‘Best of' list?" Then he amends it, looking at Ted (HEY!), "Oh, and by that I didn't mean he has to be a top."

"Which one of you is hallucinating that you're a top?" Brian snarks as he arrives, bumping Ted's hip with his own, making room for himself and Justin on the bench as we all sneer at him.

"I thought you moved to New York," I taunt Justin. In retaliation, he sticks his tongue out at me. He's always bitching that we treat him like a teenager? Wonder why we do that.

"Excuse me. It's well known I'm versatile." Ted insists.

"I've topped." I inject defensively.

"You have?" they all respond in chorus.

"Humping your mattress isn't topping," Brian digs. My brilliant comeback is to flipp him the bird. I wish I was quicker on my feet, but at least it surpasses sticking out your tongue!

"Shall we make it a two-parter? Who do you crown your best top and best bottom? Myself, I'll wave the Nelly bottom flag proudly. You know to me it ain't sex…"

"Without something up your ass," we all finish for him.

"That's right," he confirms. "Although you're all aware I too have dabbled as a dipper more than once."

"You mean, in person? Because cybersex doesn't count either," Ted informs him.

"Yes," he drawls. "I've played the role of the big, beefy top. And I received rave reviews, I'll have you know. Also, I told you before about the baths in L.A."

That shuts us all up, impressed all over again as we recall the conversation.

"What about the baths in L.A.?" Justin inquires. Brian whispers in his ear and his jaw drops. "No, shit!" He sends Emmett an appreciative nod.

Ted guesses, "So is he yours? Or possibly Drew?"

"Drew was fabulous, especially for a newcomer," he postulates, sparking raucous laughter from the table. Realizing the double entendre, he cries, "You know what I mean! But I have to tell you, there's much to be said for experience. What my Georgie lacked in physical prowess, he more than made up for in technique. That man gave the most incredible head…"

"STOP!" we all scream in concert, cringing picturing the sweet but extensively wrinkled man.

Emmett sings instructively, "Don't knock it ‘til you've tried it."

"We'll have plenty of time to fuck fossils when we're dead," Brian snipes.

"How about you, Teddy?" Emmett asks after shooting Brian a very-funny-asshole glance.

With a conspiratory whisper, he demands, "What's said at this table stays at this table, right? I want signed affidavits!"

Justin, Emmett, and I all swear an oath. Then we turn to look expectantly at Brian, who appears both annoyed and amused. "Yeah. Because I'm famous for gossiping." We all persist in waiting.  He rolls his eyes, acquiescing, "Fine. I promise not to share your state secrets with the feds, Theodore, regardless of what torture they rain upon me."

"O.k.," Nervous, he starts again, "I swear, if you breathe so much as a word to Blake…"

"Ted!" I prod impatiently.

Taking a deep breath, his eyes scanning the room for potential spies, he blurts, "Troy."

"Who?" Justin wonders.

Brian helps him out. "The pity fuck guy." His mouth forms a knowing OH. 

"So, Sir Versatility, is he your top top or your bestest bottom?" Brian pries.

Smiling devilishly, he answers, "Both."

"That hunk-a-hunk-a-burnin'-love bottomed?" Emmett gasps. 

Ted assures us, "And he was magnificent!"

"He _is_ a good fuck," Brian attests, all of us groaning. Isn't it comforting to know we have confirmation for just about anyone we name? Who hasn't he fucked? Well, there is George (please don't imagine it, please don't imagine it, please…), but that may be the singular exception.

"What about you, Michael?" Justin inquires.

Emmett tosses his arm around me, announcing, "Ben of course. Right, sweetie?"

I shift uncomfortably. "Sure." I can't lie for shit. They look around at each other, then to me, waiting. "O.k. But like Ted said, it doesn't leave this table. And that doesn't mean you can spill it the next time he sits in this booth!" I add, closing any discernable loopholes. They all agree silently, leaning in eagerly to hear the juicy details. Gulping, almost afraid to say any name but Ben's out loud, I submit, "David."

"Go, Doc." Brian lauds, genuinely shocked. Ooh, that's right. He may have fucked Ben, but he never had David.

Elaborating, I describe, "He would start out so slow I'd practcally climb out of my skin…"

"That's right! The half hour nipple extravaganza," Ted mocks in a comical voice.

Together, he, Brian, and Emmett recite, "Sixteen right, eleven left!"

Again, Justin's lost. "I'll tell you later," Brian pledges.

"You will not," I insist. I'm not him. I don't need the intimate details of my sex life broadcast to all of Pittsburgh.

"We can't just talk about it in front of him and not satisfy his curiosity. That would be rude," he chides.

"Far be it from you to deviate from the rules of social courtesy." He just shrugs, smirking. Asshole. 

Brian presses on, "How about your best bottom, Top Boy? Don't tell me the good doctor rolled over for you."

Now I have to own up, "No. I only did it once. That guy Earnest Wagonheim I met the summer I was a lifeguard."

"Well that explains it. No self-respecting fag would let himself be topped by someone named Earnest Wagonheim," Brian heckles as he and Justin bust up laughing.

"I'll have you know he was very hot, and butch." That snags Ted, joining in on the hilarity, while Emmett (I love Emmett) nods sympathetically. I confess, "It wasn't so great."

"Thus the glaring absence of a follow-up fuck." Brian's just a hoot. Ha fucking ha.

"So, is there any point in even asking you, Justin?" Ted sighs. 

He just breaks into a shit eating grin and shakes his head, leaning over to shove his tongue down Brian's throat. For a second I think they're going to demonstrate right here.

"O.k.," I goad, half curiosity, half effort to pull the curtain on the porn show. "So Brian's your best top. That's a given. Who's the tops as a bottom?" I'm feeling a little proud of myself, anxious to watch Brian squirm as Justin crowns some other guy champion.

"Uh…," he stalls for time. At first I think he's contemplating. He looks nervous though, and his eyes keep darting over to Brian, whose face gives nothing away. Maybe he's just uncomfortable saying whoever it is it in front of him. I don't know why. Brian was probably there, having his dick sucked by the guy or otherwise participating in some manner. But there's something else, something oddly reticent in those baby blues. Then I realize Justin lies about as well as I do. So that must mean…no. I banish the preposterous premise from my mind. But the nasty little sucker comes back. No way. No fucking way. Absolutely positively no fucking way in hell! He'd never let…shit, I feel nauseous. Why do I give a fuck? I'm over this…him…them. I am. I _am_. I love Ben with all my heart, and I adore our life. Hell, I actually think if they can get over their respective bullshit the two of them are even good for each other. So why do I feel so…betrayed? Like everything I've ever known and believed my entire life is a myth? I'm supposed to know Brian better than anyone. Even his partner. Because Justin will never know the adolescent who huddled in the corner of my room, determined not to cry after another beating at the hands of his father, or the one who convinced me to run away to New York with him although we didn't get any further than Old Man Rizio's at the end of the block. He'll never know who Brian was before sex became the center of his universe.

The tension in the air builds, Justin stuttering, feebly attempting to come up with a response, Ted and Emmett looking on expectantly. Finally Brian's face changes, reluctantly forfeiting this fragment of his image, letting Justin off the hook. The two of them send wordless messages to each other as Brian concedes, "Who else, boys?" Justin's face lights up like a Christmas tree, knowing full well the relevance of his admission, and they treat us to another porn worthy kiss. Holy shit, Brian can apparently unhinge his jaw like a fucking snake eating a mouse (I saw that on the Discovery channel once, and I had nightmares for a whole week), because it looks like he might just swallow Justin's entire face. Before I can regroup enough to mask my internal conflict, Brian rebukes, "Stop pouting, Mikey. You can still claim me as your best hand job."

"It didn't count!" I reiterate.

"Riiiight. I forgot," the smug smile just begging to be smacked off of his face.

Emmett and Ted are frozen, struck thoroughly dumb, both appraising Justin with new found respect. And more than a little fascination, I'd say.

Ted at last breaks the tenuous silence, wondering, "So, uh, what if we remove the Great Kinney from the equation. Who earns the silver?" I think he's just trying to stir up trouble. Anything to make Brian squirm.

Brian affords permission with his eyebrows, and Justin doesn't hesitate. "Connor James."

What? "You so did NOT fuck Connor James!" I exclaim, much louder than I intended. The entire dining population tunes in to get the scoop, the whole lot of them beholding Justin with awe. 

He shrugs in that if-you-say-so way. Then he casually relates, "Technically no." I smile victoriously, until he continues, "He fucked me."

Stupefied, Ted clarifies, "So you're saying Brian is better in bed than _Connor fucking James_?"

More for Brian than the rest of us, he purrs into his ear, "Unquestionably," his tongue flicking out for a quick lick. Great. Like Brian's ego needed that boost.

"Thank you, Sunshine," he sings, his arm shifting. I'd bet the store he's giving Justin's dick some attention under the table.

Ted whines, "Don't destroy all of my fantasies. Does he bottom?" 

"Nooooooo!" Justin reports emphatically.

"So then, your silver for best bottom would go to…" Emmett prompts.  
  
This time he really does look uncomfortable. I venture a guess, "Ethan?" 

He begins to laugh so hard his orange juice runs out his nose. Ewww! "I assume that's a no." Ted translates.

He begins to choke, and Brian smacks him solidly on the back. Wiping his nose and his eyes, he regains control.

"That cute little thing doesn't earn a medal? Not even the bronze?" Emmett offers sympathetically. If looks could kill, Brian would be guaranteeing the imminence of Emmett's funeral.

Finally able to speak, Justin pipes up, "No medals. Shit, he wouldn't make it past the trials."

Stunned, Brian stares at him, hesitating before he charges, "He…you never told me that." 

"He was a touchy subject," Justin reminds him. There's a strange, awkward little juncture, which Emmett thankfully interrupts.

"So, then the silver goes to..." 

Surveying his lap, he mumbles, "Nobody you'd know."

This time it's Brian who eases the tension, joking (well, probably not joking), "Judging by some of your new tricks, I presume it's a new trick." But by the look that passes between them, I assume Brian knows exactly who he's referring to. Probably Alice…Alex. Whatever.

Emmett turns to Brian. "That leaves you, champ. We all know you have a vast inventory to choose from, but I can't believe you haven't rated them all as you've gone along. You probably keep scorecards. Do tell, who wins the coveted Kinney Award? Oh! And jacking off doesn't count, so no endorsing yourself." 

Slouching down, trying way too hard to appear bored, he barks, "I'm not playing this juvenile game."

Patting him on the back, Ted teases, "Now now, we all know how private Brian is about sex. When he's not having it in front of the entire population of Pittsburgh, that is." Brian flicks him mightily with his finger. "Ow! You didn't think it was so ‘juvenile' when your own little juvenile presented you the gold, in multiple events no less."

"I'm not a juvenile," snaps Justin.

"Sorry. Just making a point."

Appeased, Justin returns his concentration to his bacon, or where his bacon was before he consumed it all. Reaching over to Brian's plate, aiming to lift a strip of his, he finds his hand harshly rapped. He looks exceedingly unconcerned about the question hanging in the air. There's no way he doesn't care, which can only mean he's completely confident about the answer.

Sure enough, Brian swings an arm around him, boasting, "If you must know, it's my protégé, of course. On both counts. After all, I never settle for less than the best, and I taught the lad everything he knows." Then, directed at Justin, he appends the statement, "And if his skills as a top were at all in question, he answered that definitively Thanksgiving morning." They grin seductively at each other, and Brian bends his head to nibble Justin's throat as his eyes close, head dropping back. Why is it every time these two are within 5 feet of each other, you feel like you're watching them fuck? Good lord! Some of us are eating.

"Unless you plan to share with the entire class, save it for home." Emmett scolds, flapping his hands.

Scooting out of the booth, Brian grabs both of Justin's hands from behind, announcing, "Excuse us. I suddenly have a yen for a different form of protein to sustain me before I head over to the office. Speaking of which, Theodore, I hope you've been practicing swallowing quickly. You need to finish your breakfast pronto, because by the time I arrive I expect to find you at Kinnetik, busy as the little worker bee you are." 

As soon as they're out of sight, Ted smacks a ten on the table. "Ten bucks says it lasts two months this time around. And then a four month hiatus before the next go ‘round."

"Well," Emmett theorizes, "they are doing the long distance thing, so they'll lack the ingredient of proximity that blends frequent fighting into the recipe. It'll take longer for it to turn rancid. I'll give it six months."

But they aren't privy to everything I have been. If this doesn't pan out, I'm worried Brian's in deep shit trouble. I love him. Always have. Always will. (Although I can finally say without reservation I'm not _in_ love with him.) Not to mention, I truly consider Justin a friend (albeit one I seem to be awfully competitive with at times). So how can I not want this for them? Despite the ick factor of the excessive PDF (Public Display of Fucking), I'm genuinely pleased to place my bet. "My money's on this one being for good." 


	17. 17 - The Gift

**Brian's POV**

There's a tap on the glass, and a head pops through the door. "I brought some boards for you to look at." 

Waving him in, I spread them out on the table, my keen eye in action. "These two are exactly what I wanted. This one..." I tap the third, "looks good, but bump up the yellow and increase the font size four points. It needs to pop more." 

"Yes, Mr. Kinney." 

He makes a move to gather the boards and I catch his wrist, twisting until he's facing me, my arm winding around his waist, pulling him tightly against me. "By the way, have I thanked you properly for your assistance?" 

"Define 'properly'." 

I classify it for him by bending my head to lick at his lips, parting easily at my touch, his tongue jutting out to meet mine, the two jousting playfully. His arms automatically encircle my neck, raising himself up on his tiptoes to declare victory in the scrimmage as he sucks my tongue into his mouth, tickling the bottom with his own. My hand slides inside the back of his pants, my index finger settling into the valley between his cheeks. A moan rumbles from the back of his throat, and our hardening dicks begin to bump. Fuck! I'd kill to swipe my arm across my desk, clearing it to throw him down and ravage him where the clutter had been. But I can't. I've got so much shit to get done. Damn him! I warned him how ridiculously busy I'd be. But stopping him is like trying to stop...well, me. 

Using superhuman strength to break the kiss, I mournfully remind him, "I can't do this right now. I've got way too much work." 

"O.k." he whispers, his hot breath nearly scalding my ear. He deposits small, tender kisses along my jaw line, down toward my chin and back. "You're the boss." His voice is pointedly evocative, sending exhilarating electrical charges to all the right places. He slides his lips across to mine once more, his tongue crawling sumptuously through the inside of my mouth as if I'm a rare delicacy, ensuring a lasting impression before he abruptly pulls away. My neck, my head, my mouth follow him, lurching forward, reluctant for the separation, my heart racing as he makes his way to the door. I'm flustered, my body functionally incapacitated by the hormonal hurricane he unleashed. I fucking _hate_ that he can utterly debilitate me, and more so that my dazed stare plainly betrays that fact. My only consolation is the certainty that I have the power to render him just as helpless.

Instead of leaving, however, he swivels, hands behind him on the door as he leans against it. "Although...I'm thinking..." 

"Always a dangerous sign," I interrupt predictably. 

"It'll relax you so you can think more clearly and creatively. Besides, with all the work I've knocked out today, I've already more than made up the time." 

He does make me laugh. "You are, without a doubt, the master of justification." 

"Why do you think they call it 'justin'fication." He wiggles his eyebrows at me, pleased at his self-appraised cleverness, stalking back toward me purposefully. 

With two hands on my shoulders, he forces me down onto the computer chair, swinging a leg over me, sitting on my lap, grinding the growing bulge in his pants against the one in mine as I suck my breath in sharply. If I had any remaining thoughts of derailing this, they just died. 

In a flurry of fingers, our clothing is torn from our bodies, both of us so impetuously working to free him from his shirt that the distinct sound of it ripping cuts the air. Spiraling rapidly into a frenzy, we forge ahead with an urgency not experienced since the airport bathroom his first visit home. 

Kissing me greedily as if I'm the very air he breathes, he locks his mouth to mine while we clumsily shimmy out of our pants. Or at least enough to matter, fiercely driven by a burning need to feel skin against skin. Mine lay pooled around my ankles, his still adorning his right leg from the knee down, the remainder hanging loosely. 

His feet don't quite make it to the ground, the onus of supporting his full weight on my thighs. He shreds the condom wrapper with his teeth, sheathing my hungering dick and employing his own plentiful precum as lubrication before lowering himself agilely upon it. As I penetrate him, his face melts into gratified relief, like he's swigging his first drink of water after months lost in the desert. 

Technically I might be the fuck-er and he the fuck-ee, but there's no question he's running this show. Shit, it's so fucking hot when he gets like this. I fight to contribute, to thrust my hips up, infiltrating him further. My legs are becoming numb, abused by his aggressive pistoning. In fact, he's slamming down so forcefully the momentum is sending us rolling around the office, smacking into furniture like a bumper car. 

Knowing it spurs him (and me) on, I grab a handful of his hair, yanking his head back violently, exercising a full force attack on his neck. I'll be sending him back to New York looking look like the victim of some serial strangler, heavily marked. Just as brutally, he hugs my head to him tightly, my face firmly smashed against his ribs. 

His hand slips between us and I feel the motion against my stomach as he jerks himself off, every movement extending a comparable affect on me. Eyes screwed tight, nose scrunched, I recognize his warning signs. His forehead drops, burrowing into my shoulder. In conjunction with his savage grunts, I feel warmth exploding between us as high as my chin as he crushes me to him, coating us both in the fusion of cum and sweat and spit. I kiss his chest, spreading it, the salacious mixture pervading my mouth. Then I deposit his flavor sloppily onto his own lips. 

I'm on the precipice, teetering, until he skillfully shoves me over the edge. His unwavering eyes set themselves on mine and his teeth entrap his bottom lip, creating a look of unrelenting determination while, calculatingly clenched, he jerks his body up once...twice...oh holy motherfucking shit, he's compressing his clamped hole more with each tug....and again... I claw at his back, which will now apparently match his battered neck quite nicely. My head tucks down, the top smashed against his chest as his hands clasp behind my neck, yanking me even closer. My bellow echoes around the room, no doubt reverberating throughout the entire office as my climax surges through me. 

"Fuck," I gasp, huffing and puffing as if I'd just completed one of those Liberty Ride preparational spin classes. 

"Yeah," he pants, too sapped to eke out anything more. 

"That was..." My mind is too scrambled and oxygen deprived to form a coherent sentence. 

"Yeah," he breathes again. 

After a few minutes of regaining our senses, my speechlessness eases as I probe, "Where the fuck did that come from?" 

Still mutually wiped, his head dead weight on my shoulder, mine propped on his, he contends, "I have a title to defend. After all, 'Brian Kinney's Best Fuck' is a monumental and widely coveted designation. I would be a fool to rest on my laurels. Never know who's gonna come nipping at my heels." 

"Or at my ass," I point out, slapping at his. 

Groaning, he hoists himself off of me, using my hand to roll me toward the bathroom in the chair like a kid with a wagon, dragging his pants along with the one leg still in them. After cleaning himself, he holds up the rag that was once his shirt. 

"Shall I work topless the rest of the day?" 

"I do allow casual dress on the weekends." 

"Perhaps this pushes the envelope just a bit. Besides, I'll be prohibitively distracting to your fag and hetero female employees." 

"My, aren't we confident?" I remark, reaching out to pinch his nipple. Grabbing the useless fabric, I dump it in the trash, tossing him one of the extra shirts I keep around. It's Prada and swims on him, aside from looking absurd over paint splattered cargo pants, but there's something undeniably sexy about the ensemble. I don't know that he'll be any less distracting in this than he would be shirtless. At least not to me. 

He moves to leave, but in a replay of earlier events I grab his wrist and pull him back to me. I give him an enthusiastic kiss, whispering, "One for the road," before shoving him away, smiling mischievously. 

Cynthia and Ted walk in on the exchange, both unsuccessfully trying to swallow giddy grins. "Saving yourselves a few bucks on internet porn by holding a glass up to the door?" They both continue to struggle against their facial muscles, but can't stop themselves from their tittering high school freshman appearance. "Stop gawking. Christ! You'd think you'd never seen two people in love before." 

Their eyes dart toward each other, then back to me in a flash, the incident barely registering. 

"What?" 

"Nothing," Cynthia jumps. Ted's about to comment, but an ocular shut-the-fuck-up from Cynthia silences him. What's up their asses? It's hardly as if this is the first time they've walked in on us. We weren't even in flagrante delicto. Maybe they're just prudishly tickled by the fact that Justin walked in wearing his own shirt and left sporting one of mine. 

They conduct their business and leave, repeatedly sharing that lightning quick eye contact. Hunkering down to review the papers they brought in, it clicks. They've never heard me say it before. Actually, besides him, nobody has. (Oh, right. And Michael.) Shit, I've only said it to him a handful of times. I may have stumbled accidentally into being in love, but that doesn't mean I've miraculously mutated into some über-effusive Stepford fag. Although I must admit I'm a little surprised myself how unconsciously it flowed out of my mouth, how perfectly natural it felt. 

Back to work. I'm in the zone, fueled by the invigorating workout. Hours fly by as I efficiently dismantle the huge piles on my desk. I'm so absorbed, the ping of an IM startles me. 

**I can still feel you.**

I smile inside and out at the thought of him sitting in the art department, surrounded by my staff, the feel of me still permeating him, my scent painted on his skin. A fever cascades down my body, and suddenly I'm envious. Leaning back in my chair and closing my eyes, I conjure up memories of him teasing me, opening me, the hollow sensation as he withdraws his fingers followed by the glorious sting and stretch of him filling me, plunging deeper with each stab. My hand innately glides to the quickly developing rod of steel in my jeans. Fuck! I want him...immediately, if not sooner. But while I relented and admitted my occasional submission to the guys, there's no fucking way in hell I'd do it here, where any asshole can wander in (and has) during the act. I'm Grand Poobah around here, king of all I survey, and it's simply inconceivable for me to show so much as a sliver of tender underbelly within these walls. 

I instruct:   
**Grab your crap. We're leaving.**

He shoots back:   
**Give me fifteen minutes. I'm finishing up the final board.**

Adrenaline's been let loose, already speeding through my veins like a racehorse. We might not make it the few blocks back to the loft. Enterprising as always, I begin to problem solve, strategically mapping the route, mentally ferreting out a secluded enough spot between here and there, away from the prying eyes of the ever vigilant fags on Liberty Avenue. Then again, better not. The loft it is. I moan as my hand insistently massages my agonizingly confined cock. One handed, I manage to send:   
**Now! I have a higher priority project I need you to do.**

I'm not sure if he's playing clueless, or if he truly is. **  
What's that?**

Duh.   
**ME**

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* 

Satiated, we lay entangled on the floor, cradled by the large feathery pillows. Justin flops over, half laying on me, his leg strewn across mine, one arm curled up on my chest, and I flip the joint between my lips, mutely inviting him to shotgun. 

The buzz washing over him, he informs me, "I don't want to do this anymore." 

In an exaggeratedly wholesome voice, I tease, "We'll talk to Blake first thing in the morning. He's helped so many who've said those very same words." 

Laughing, he says, "No, I meant us. I don't want to..." 

"Hold the phone! I simply cannot sign off on no more fucking. What's the matter? Is the pressure of retaining your title too much for you? Or are you implying we've peaked and it's just not as good anymore." 

Slapping my chest and chuckling, he responds, "It's better. Each time. That's not what I meant either." His face is plastered with that childlike adoration he gives off that makes me feel about forty feet tall. "I'm talking about this geographical separation crap." 

I transition from soaring to crashing in a flash. Shit. I knew this was coming. Steeling myself, I defy the overwhelming urge to wrap him in my arms and command him to move his ass back here. We both know where he needs to be. "You're going back to New York." 

"What happened to wanting to be together. Sleeping together every night and waking up to each other every morning?" 

Wanting nothing more, I concentrate on maintaining a calm, rational, and expressly firm voice. "I do. And we will. When the timing's right." 

"But..." 

"There's nothing to discuss. You're going back to New York." 

Annoyed, he spits, "So much for not making decisions for me anymore." 

There's a pregnant pause as he engages me in a stare down. Pathetic. Did he forget he's dealing with the master? Give it up. 

He does. "O.k. Come with me." 

"I'm good, Sunshine, but even I can't manage it _every_ time."

The remark does get a smile, but he presses, "To New York." 

"Not now. You saw how much I have to get done between now and the end of the year. Besides, you'll be back in two weeks." 

"Not for a few days. Come for good." Then quickly, he cautions, "And don't make a cum joke." 

"I won't, if you stop ODing on crazy pills." 

"It's not crazy. It's genius, and you know it." 

"My business is here. Both of my businesses." 

"Right. I wasn't thinking. Who could run a successful advertising firm in New York City? Ludicrous!" 

"My clients..." 

"Your clients would fucking love it. It's not as if your book is filled with local Mom & Pop shops. Bally, Brown Athletics, Remson, ...do you honestly think they'd drop you if you weren't in Pittsburg? I'm sure they'd be thrilled to travel to New York for business instead of here. In fact, being in New York would afford Kinnetik even greater credibility on a national scale." 

I shake my head. "It's not ready for that kind of growth. Besides, I have the club." 

"Bullshit. You said yourself you can't even find enough top level talent here to keep up with all the work you have. Not only is it more than ready for that kind of growth, you've _out_ grown it here. As far as Babylon goes, you could hire somebody--maybe even Ted--to manage it. You don't have to be so hands on."

Snaking my arm between us, I grab his crotch. "But I like being hands on." 

He wriggles free, laughing. "I know you do. Listen to me. Are you listening? 

Rolling my eyes, I assure him, "I'm listening." 

"Imagine what Kinnetik could become there. You're better than half those assholes on Madison Avenue." 

"No, I'm not." 

"Brian..." 

"I'm better than ALL of those assholes on Madison Avenue." 

"So why wouldn't you go for it? For longer than I've know you, you've been fantasizing about leaving Pittsburg, moving to New York and never looking back. Were you all talk? Because the Brian Kinney I know, the man I fell hopelessly in love with, is a man of action. Always has been. Look, you pushed me to go so I could become the biggest success it was possible for me to be. Why doesn't that apply to you too? And how sweet would it be to make Adam Lyons and Kennedy & Collins eat their fucking hearts out for passing you up? Besides, the only thing that would piss off those straight ad guys more than you being the most successful ad man in Pittsburg is if Kinnetik became the most successful firm in Manhattan." 

I'm getting pissed. At myself. The little shit really has my number. God damn it. I knew he was dangerous from the minute I let him so blatantly manipulate me into fucking him that second time. I take another hit from the joint, my eyes fixed on the ceiling, waiting for the high to work its magic on the increasing tension inside my skin. He's watching me, trying to discern if he's making a dent in the armor. Fuck if I'll let him know. 

Unable to tolerate the silence any longer, he prods, "Fine. I'll come back, then. I can paint here and just go down occasionally to drum up interest in my work. Gregory will have a goat, but fuck him." 

"No." I snap. I won't, _absofuckinglutely_ will not, sentence him to a future imprisoned in this graveyard. He's proven more than once that he's got the talent (not to mention the balls) to escape. I'll be damned if I'll let him fuck up his life by handcuffing himself to me (not in a fun way). I look him dead in the eye, guaranteeing there's no equivocation in my message. "You belong in New York."

Leaning forward, he kisses me softly, equivalent resolve boomeranging back at me. "I _belong_ with you. And in case you haven't figured it out yet, you stubborn son of a bitch, you belong with me too." He plants a few kisses on my left pec before nestling against it, his fingers sketching some imagined scene on the canvass of my abdomen.

Quiet blankets the loft, and I replay in my mind the strikingly similar conversation I had with Lindsay up in Toronto. I told her then what I told him tonight -- I'm where I need to be. For me. I've worked too fucking hard to get where I am. I can't just recklessly risk it all. Right? Right. So why is there a little voice nagging at me that risking it all is what got me this far in the first place? 

 

************************** 

**Justin's POV**

I'm getting dressed as Brian slowly rejoins the world of the living. He thought I slept through it, but I heard him up half the night chugging Beam and smoking joint after joint, tormented, I'm sure, by my proposition. 

Stretching, he grumbles, "Where are you going? Come over here," reaching for me sleepily. 

"Can't. My mom will kill me if she hears I was in town and didn't see her." I bend over to kiss him, retreating before he can grab me and pull me back into the bed. "If you want, I can stop by the office before I head to the airport for a farewell fuck." 

Smiling, he points toward the kitchen. "Then take the 'vette. The keys are on the counter." 

"Huh?" 

"The 'vette. It's a motorized vehicle that effortlessly transports you from point A to point B." 

"But you've never let me take it without sitting there breathing down my neck." 

"I have confidence." Cool! "Confidence that if you so much as leave one infinitesimal scratch, I'll do worse than breathe down that neck. I'll wring it." Ah. 

I pause for a moment, preparing to jump back in with both feet. "So... am I telling my mom and Molly I'm moving back, or that you're moving there?" 

"Those aren't the only two options." 

Oh yes they are. "Yes they are." 

His jaw's beginning to set, his teeth gritted together. "You can tell them that _you're_ going back."

"Brian..." 

I'm hit with his stony this-conversation-is-over face. Exasperated, I grab the keys and stomp out the door. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* 

"Justin!" pierces the closed door just before the click of it unlocking and the whoosh of it being wrenched open. 

"Hi, Mom." I say, hugging her. 

"What are you doing here?" But she answers her own question. Holding her hand up, she stops me, "Wait. Don't tell me. Brian." 

I wear my who-else smile and walk in. "Where's Molly?" 

"She and Tucker are on her class ski trip. I passed." 

"Wow. Aren't you afraid they'll bond a little too much over the latest Lindsay Lohan crisis or something? You know how kids are." She smacks me on the arm, hard enough to let me know she's not amused. O.k. I deserve it. 

Sitting down to a cup of coffee, she checks, "So, should I ask? How are things with you and Brian?" 

"Great." Suspicion blooms on her face. "Really. They're great." 

"I believe you. I'm just...it's only been two weeks since you--I don't even know what to call it--got back together? It seems fast to be smooth sailing already." 

"A lot happened over Thanksgiving. We're past all the on-again-off-again shit. Christ, we'd fucking better be." 

"Well, then I'm glad. You know he's welcome to come here with you Christmas Eve." 

"Thanks, but he's going over to Michael and Ben's. Mel and Linds will be staying there with the kids." 

Hesitantly she asks, "Is that where you'd rather be?" 

"No. We'll all be together Christmas Day, right?" She nods. "Just because we're 'together' doesn't mean we're surgically attached." I sigh, forlorn. "We're barely attached at all." 

"I thought you said..." 

"I tried to convince him to move to New York with me. And last night I really thought I'd made some headway. But this morning it was back to the same old fucking brick wall." 

She pats my hand, smiling encouragingly. "Keep chipping away, sweetheart. You have a talent for breaking through those." 

 

************************* 

**Brian's POV**

I'm not even inside the doorway when a Gus shaped cannonball pummels me, hollering, "Daddy Daddy Daddy Daddy Daddy Daddy!" Is there any better feeling in the world than your kid flinging himself at you with boundless glee? I can't help but remember telling Justin how surprised I was that I actually loved this little brat. And he was only a few months old then. Who knew that feeling actually grows exponentially along with the tot? I swear, between the unforeseen influences of my son and Justin, there are times I barely even fucking recognize myself anymore. 

I do pity him, saddled with such a crappy father. At least he's got two mothers who love him. And each other. And he'll never, _never_ have to be afraid of his old man. At least I can give him that. 

As we prepare to put the kids down, which, on Christmas Eve, is really a preposterous proposition, Gus begs me to stay over so that I'll be around first thing in the morning. "Can't you sleep with me, Daddy?" Great. Mel and Linds are in the guest room, so that requires camping out on the floor. The things I do for this kid! "I want to sleep in between you and Uncle Justin." 

"Uncle Justin's sleeping at his mommy's house." 

Pouting (shit, he's good at that), he whines, "Pleeeeaaaaase, Daddy!" 

Sighing, I pull out my cell phone. "Hey. Somebody wants to ask you something." I hand the phone over to Gus, who launches directly into pleading his case. Wow. He's rapidly catching up to Justin on the no-stopping-this-freight-train scale. Within thirty minutes, Gus is happily snoring away, wedged between the two of us on the floor. 

"I can't believe I'm sleeping on the fucking floor," I complain. 

"Oh, give it a rest. We lay on the floor all the time." 

"Not to sleep," I point out. 

"You can't fool me. You love it. Well, you love him, and this makes him happy. It's just one night. You'll survive, old man." My leg flexes out to kick him. "Every time I see him, he looks more and more like you." 

"He does look like somebody stuck me in the dryer." 

"What the fuck would you know about the dryer?" That earns him another kick. Doesn't matter that it's true. We drift off, smiling at each other over the tufts of munchkin hair. 

Morning arrives quickly, but not too quickly for me. The floor is definitely meant for fucking, not sleeping. Gus terrorizes us for forcing him to wait until everyone's up before letting him loose on his presents. His unbridled enthusiasm completely masks the fact he'd already opened the first of his Hanukkah gifts last night. 

After the first obnoxiously huge meal of the day, Justin and I dash back to the loft to shower, fuck, and change (not necessarily in that order). "Mmmmm," I growl, sneaking up behind him and slipping my arms around his waist when I see he's wearing the blue Armani sweater I got him at Sacks. 

"Again?" he asks, amazed. "I've got youth on my side, but aren't you supposed to need a little more recovery time as you totter into your golden years?" 

"Shut the fuck up," I snap. Then explain, "Only amateurs need recovery time after just three rounds. Besides, I told you I can't keep my hands off of you in this thing." 

"Then I'd better change. It would be a bit boorish to fuck at the table during Christmas dinner." 

"Don't. It'll remind me what I'm having for dessert." 

"Life's short. Eat dessert first," he quotes, spinning in my arms, a twinkle in his eye. 

"Sometimes bumper sticker philosophy is the most profound," I agree, sliding my hands under the indulgent garment, my finger bumping a small, hard object. "What's that?" I ask when he shifts nervously at my discovery. 

Apprehensive, he reaches inside the collar and pulls out a leather cord hanging around his neck, his ring dangling from it. "I just wear it under my shirt. Nobody else even knows it's there..." 

"You don't have to defend yourself. I told you, it's yours. You can do whatever the fuck you want with it," I toss out indifferently. No need to divulge I kind of get a kick out of it. But when I kiss him, he instantly senses that the tiger who was mauling him moments before has lost his roar, purring instead. 

When we finally return to the brouhaha, it's amid full gift mania, wrapping paper flying, ooohs and aaaahs from every corner. It's enough to make you hurl. Bracing myself for the useless, tasteless crap I know all too well from experience I'm about to receive, I make a beeline for Gus, focusing evadingly on his new toys. 

The doorbell chimes, and Emmett jumps to answer it. I'm surprised to see Lyle Stern stride in. Lyle's a client, and I hired Emmett to plan the launch party for his company's latest campaign. "Everybody," Emmett sings, "this is my friend Lyle. He's Jewish, and can you believe he's never been to a Christmas celebration? So I thought we could include him in ours." 

"Hi, Brian," Lyle waves uncomfortably. 

I nod at him. "Lyle." 

"Well, I'm glad to have a fellow outsider to commiserate with," Mel pipes up, motioning for Lyle to come join her. Emmett follows all aflutter, mooning over Lyle the way Mikey does over Captain Astro. 

Debbie unveils a bright orange, lime green, and neon purple monstrosity that doubles as a sweater from Michael and Ben, and promptly begins to bawl. Shit, I would too if somebody expected me to wear that offensive tangle of yarn. "I LOVE it! But you didn't have to get me a fucking thing," she sobs dramatically (I suppose the qualifier's redundant when we're referring to Deb). "The only Christmas present I need is the two of you, here and healthy. After everything we went through this year... All of us sittin' here together is the best gift I could imagine." 

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Jennifer squeeze Justin and kiss him on the forehead. Amen, Jen. It must be the lethal combination of raging endorphins from obscenely overindulging, the excessively sentimental Debbie (again, redundant), and the visible bump of the ring under Justin's sweater, but I impulsively rise and clear my throat, garnering everyone's attention. "Since we've evidently reached the reminiscing segment of the evening, there's something I'd like to do." Now that I've started, I'm not exactly sure how to go about this. Rolling my lips in, I bite down and stall for a second. "I know you all nearly had a stroke when Justin and I decided to get married, given the fact that I've long expressed such distain for the practice." Justin's observing me intensely, puzzled and unnerved. I address him directly. "And although we made a different choice in the end, there was something you were meant to experience that day that I still think you should. Christmas seems like an appropriate occasion to remedy the situation." I signal with my eyes and he stands, acrobatically stepping over JR, Gus and their considerable haul to join me. The entire crowd is holding their breath, clueless as to what to expect. "You never got to hear me stand up in front of the people who matter to us and tell you how much I love you." Debbie and Emmett begin blubbering, the sound saturating the house, but I'm fixated on the unsuspecting twink facing me, his eyelids furiously blinking back the dampness. The rest of him is so frozen, if I even mildly exhale I think he might actually topple over. "I love you, Justin." 

The air in the room is so still it's freaky. Slowly, like we're under water, he leans forward and sinks his fingers into my hair, bringing me to him for an inspired kiss. I hand him an envelope, and he scrutinizes it, curious. "The mystery is easy enough to solve, you know." I tease. 

"You already gave me something," he announces, encouraging giggles. "A Christmas gift," he asserts, rolling his eyes at them all. 

"This one's for both of us." 

Opening it, the light in his eyes dims. "You got me a ticket back to New York?" 

Nitwit. "Look again," I instruct. 

"Oh, it's for you. You're coming to visit?" 

For Christ's sake! I start laughing, bowing my head to his. Cupping his face in my hands, I state, "You brag about your SAT score and you can't even read a fucking plane ticket? Look closer, Sunshine." 

He obeys, the confusion at last evaporating as it dawns on him what I've been trying to get across. 

Our heads still pressed together, a goofy grin on my face, I confirm, "It's one way." 

 


	18. 18 - Home Sweet Home

**Justin’s POV**

"What do you think?" he asks, pacing widely.

Stupid question. Look at it! I’m surveying an enormous open space that spans the top floor of a great old building. There are gorgeous architectural elements, like the two opposing exposed brick walls lined with huge, floor to ceiling arched windows which provide the kind of light that’s a wet dream for an artist, separated by Romanesque columns constructed in what looks like red clay. The same columns are interspersed around the floor, giving the place a regal look. The first two stories have long been converted to retail space, and the others have each been broken up into three separate apartments. What this level’s been used for is a mystery. 

"What do I think? I think it’s amazing. But do you have any idea how hot the West Village is now? A place like this down here, anywhere in Manhattan for that matter, is so far out of my financial realm it’s laughable." By his expression, you’d think I just spoke Mandarin. "What?"

"You expect me to live someplace _you_ can afford?" That gets him a prolonged view of my middle finger. "Of course, with my funds so tied up in establishing the New York office…" He clears his throat, squinting as he thinks. "To afford this, to afford anything really, I’ll have to sell the house." 

"I thought you said that between the Pittsburgh office, the club, and family shit, we’d be back there so much it would be moronic not to keep the loft."

"It would. I have no intention of selling the loft."

"Huh?" 

"I’m not planning on selling the loft. I said I’d have to sell the house."

"What hou…" NO! He can’t mean… "Britin?" I screech, staggered. Doing an impeccable impression of Gus, his eyes fuse to some imaginary item of overwhelming interest on the floor, kicking at it with the toe of his shoe, hands shoved deep into his pockets. "Brian, why did you keep the house?"

He shrugs, "It’s the country manor of your dreams."

Bull's-eye! Straight to the heart. Stepping to him, one hand resting in the center of his chest while the other unconsciously plays with the ring beneath my shirt, I coo, "When did you become a sentimental fool?" 

In his uniquely unapologetic tone he regains his customary poise, stating, "When some asshole planted a bomb in my club." 

Our eyes connect, and in the enveloping silence a million words are spoken. Once again, it’s driven home that every time I think I grasp how much he loves me... "I love the house, but I don’t think it would have worked for us anyway." 

"Why the fuck not?" 

"Think about it. Let’s say I was in the kitchen and got really, really horny. It could take me hours to track you down in that palace. Enduring a massive boner for such an extended period of time could be hazardous to my health…and, more importantly, to our sex life." He grins, lowering his forehead to mine and covering my hand on his chest with his own, squeezing. "But this place won't either. It's just too extravagant." 

"With the money from the house, I’m pretty sure I could swing…" 

"I mean for me. We’re partners, right?" He nods reluctantly in agreement, foreseeing where I'm headed. "I’m not willing to be the kept little twink living off of you at _your_ place anymore. Wherever we live, it has to be _ours_." Apprehension visibly overtakes him. "Come on. It’s not like I’m asking you to squat in some tenement building. I did pretty well this year between the comic, the Toasties job, and my paintings." 

He sighs, mulling it over. I know he’s frustrated, but I also know he respects my position. "How about if you contribute what you can now, and then pay me the rest in installments. Like we did for your tuition." 

I still wish it didn’t feel like somehow he always ends up taking care of me, but I guess it’s not fair for me to insist he live down to my means. "O.k." 

"So, do we make an offer?" 

I troop around the perimeter, studying every square foot. "It’s not just the cost of the real estate itself. This is going to require a _lot_ of work. It's not even framed out. We’ll need to design a floor plan, figure out everything from where to put the walls…" 

"Why would you fuck up this space with walls?" 

"For privacy," I respond. Isn’t that obvious? 

"We never had a problem with that in the loft." 

"Not from each other. What about when Gus comes to visit, or my mom, Michael? Anyone. I have a sneaking suspicion we’ll be a frequent vacation destination." 

"If Mikey and the professor or anyone besides Gus descends upon us, I’ll be happy to put them up in a very comfortable hotel." 

I tilt my head, crossing my arms and pursing my lips in displeasure. "Brian… " 

"Are you going to tell me that you’d be eager to have your mom and Tucker stay here? Because unless we spring for soundproofing, chances are you’d get an earful of them going at it." 

Christ! I think I just threw up in my mouth a little. He certainly knows exactly how to convince me. "Was that really necessary? How the fuck am I going to get THAT thought out of my head?" 

"It might help if we take the place for a little test drive," he proposes, dipping his head to lick at my collar bone. "Wait here." He strides to the far side of the floor, calling out, "O.k. Pretend you're really, really horny. How long does it take for you to get to me?" 

"Who has to pretend?" I ask, tearing across the room at a full sprint, leaping at him, arms gripping his shoulders, legs wrapped tightly around his waist. The force knocks him back against the wall, but he spins, sandwiching me, kissing me so hard there’s not a cell in my body that doesn’t feel it. 

You know, this place might work after all. 

************************* 

**Brian’s POV**

We’ve had so little down time like this. I've been insanely busy with the construction and staffing of the new office and he's been painting up a storm, most nights until his hand is fried (which he repeatedly tries to hide from me until I force him to let me massage it). Then there's all the work we have to oversee at our new place. I wish the contractor would hurry the fuck up. This tiny little shit hole is really getting on my nerves. Thank the lord Jared agreed to crash at Alex's apartment until we can move out. If all three of us had to share this shoebox, I'd be ready for the institution. That'll teach me to make ridiculously romantic gestures. I never should have moved before our new accommodations were occupancy ready. 

The small tidbits of time we do get alone lately tends to consist of a quick fuck followed by passing out in exhaustion. So I’m reveling in this rare relaxing morning, sitting on the sofa flipping through magazines, checking out the competition, his head comfortably resting in my lap as he reads his book. With my free hand, my fingers thread mindlessly, lazily through his hair. 

Something on the page delights him, and he taps my leg, excited. "Hey! Remember the Annina Nosei Gallery Gregory said might be interested in giving me a one-artist show?" 

"Mmm hmm." 

"She showed Basquiat when he was a new artist. At the old SoHo location." 

"Conquering New York, just as predicted." 

"Hardly." 

"It’s just a matter of time. Take a look at this." I hold a magazine above his face. 

"That's complete crap. You should call them." 

"Way ahead of you. Left them a message yesterday. I already have a pitch percolating. Oh, here, this is the latest Brown ad." I suspend it above his head again. 

"Whoa! He’s hot." 

"And freakishly huge. I feel for his girlfriend. That’s got to hurt like a motherfucker. You should have seen the hoops the stylist had to jump through to fully contain him so the shot didn’t end up looking like porn." 

"So…" 

"So, what?" 

He flashes me an oh-please-how-long-have-I-known-you grin. "How was he?" 

I have to admit I'm relieved. He claims to be all right with my tricking, but frankly I wasn't sure I bought it. Especially considering I don't think he does it much himself, if at all. "Tight as hell, " I reveal. "And such an unbelievable fucking wimp about it." Shaking my head, I mutter, "Straight guys." 

"Don’t be so hard on him." 

It’s barely out before we both start to cackle. I mockingly sigh, "Are we back to lesson one again? That happens to be the whole idea." 

Reaching under his head, he gives my dick a squeeze. "I meant you’re a lot to take. Particularly for a first timer." 

"You managed pretty well," I laud, folding over for an upside down kiss, enjoying the oddly erotic bumpiness of the roof of his mouth against smooth underside of my tongue. I set down my magazine and pluck the book from him, discarding it, my hand sliding across his abdomen, slipping under the waistband of his pants. His blissful moans are interrupted by the ring of my cell. He moves to sit up, but I block him with my arm, holding him in place. "Kinney." I answer, my hand continuing to rub him inside his jeans. 

"Hi, Brian. It's Richard Gordon. I wanted you to know I've got all of the papers for the business drawn up." 

"Great. I’ll stop by your office tomorrow morning. Do you have the personal documents ready?" 

"I have a few detail questions for you, but we can finalize those tomorrow as well." 

"Excellent. Does he need to be there too?" 

"Me?" Justin mouths, wriggling from my unyielding ministrations. 

"It would be a good idea if you plan to formalize everything we discussed on Tuesday." 

"O.k. We’ll see you tomorrow then." I set the phone down, returning my attention to the blonde in my lap…and my hand. 

"What was that about?" he asks against my mouth. 

"My new lawyer. There’s a shitload of paperwork involved in expanding your business into a new state," I dottedly explain as I run my tongue along his teeth, still fascinated by the altered sensations of our inverted position. 

"You said something about personal documents." Then, deciding he's prying, he covers his face with his hands. "Never mind. Sorry. It’s none of my business." 

Might as well tell him. "Actually, it sort of is. You should probably know about it." Dragging my free hand along his arm from his shoulder to his palm, I lace my fingers in his. "I’ve named you as executor of my will." 

He grabs my wrist, wrenching it from his dick and popping up like a Jack-in-the-box, alarmed. "Your _will_?" 

"Relax. I own businesses, investments. Not to mention I have a son. It’s essential for me to have a will." His panic eases…slightly. "You need to be there too, though. There are some other papers we should file, and Rick’s familiar with the ins and outs of where domestic partnership stands in New York." 

He sputters, "Domestic partnership? But we decided marriage…" 

"This isn’t about saccharine fairy-tale shit." 

"Ever the romantic," he jabs. 

Sneering, I stress, "Don't be a twat. This is serious. We have to investigate if you can still be covered under my health plan here or if I need to keep my Pennsylvania plan, how to make sure you have the necessary authority for medical decision making, that sort of thing." 

He literally turns green. "You’re asking me to decide when to pull the plug?" 

Bluntly, I answer, "Yes. I actually already designated you. Years ago. I mean, let’s get real. Mikey would never be able to do it." 

"I cannot believe you never told me that." 

"I was hoping you’d never have cause to act on it." 

"Does Michael know?" 

"I’m sure he assumes by now. He never said anything to me, but he must have changed his power of attorney or whatever from me to Ben. Shit, I hope he has." 

"I don’t know if I could…" He can’t even bring himself to say it. Despite everything, he still has no concept of how strong he is. 

"You could, if you needed to. It’s not just for something as drastic as a life support situation, though. It’s any kind of medical decision I’m not capable of making myself for whatever reason. You should understand better than anyone that shit can happen any time, any place." I reach out, caressing the scar on his scalp. Then, as gently as possible, I suggest, "For example, the cancer could come back." 

"Don’t say that," he snips, shivering from head to toe at the mere thought. "You’ve been cancer free for two years. They got it." 

Sometimes the fact that he’s only twenty-two rears its innocent little head. "Justin, this is important. Unfounded optimism may be part of your charm, but you can’t just blindly hope for the best. You also have to prepare for the worst. Forget cancer. I could get hit by a fucking bus, or mugged in the subway." 

"Like you ever intend to step foot on the subway." 

True. "I’m speaking hypothetically. The point is I want you protected." 

"If something happened to you, do you really think I’d give a fuck about your money?" 

Ah, the naivety. "We own property together now. And the longer we live together, the more intertwined our finances are bound to become. It’s inevitable. You've heard the countless stories about some homo kicking it, the ‘loving’ family that’s been scarce for twenty years magically appearing, and the partner winds up losing everything. Ask Emmett what can happen." 

Slightly dazed, he drones, "It’s real." 

"What’s real?" 

"Us. You’re not just using the word ‘partner’ to humor me. You’re actually treating me like one." 

I suppose I am. When the fuck did that happen? I think it surprises both of us even more than my finally saying…well, you know. "I told you, I want you protected. Besides, I’d rather burn the shit than let my mother, Claire, or her demon spawn see a fucking dime. Make no mistake, even if we get everything letter perfect, those greedy bitches will try to come after whatever they can get their grubby little hands on. You have to promise me you’d poison them in their sleep before you’d hand them one red cent." I demand with escalating emotion. "I mean it." 

"I know you do. I promise," he assures me, stroking my leg. 

Placing my hands on his shoulders, I tell him, "I trust you to make sure Gus is taken care of. And Linds. Even Mikey and Deb for that matter. Kinnetik, the club… I trust you to know what I’d want." 

Swallowing hard, he warbles, "I hate this conversation." Sliding my hands from his shoulders to his face, I bring it to my own, foreheads resting against one another. We close our eyes and sit with it for a while. Finally he sits up straight, accepting the very adult responsibilities we have to deal with. "I should do it too. I’m more likely to get mugged in the subway, considering I actually use it. And I’m not the only one who needs to be protected. Although I doubt my mom would give you any trouble." 

"You father could." 

"Fuck. I didn’t think of that." 

"We don’t have a choice. We have to think of it. It’s the plight of being a fag. Even if we had gotten married, it wouldn’t mean shit. It’s not legal here or in PA. If we’re not extremely thorough, we could really end up fucked. And NOT in a fun way." 

Needing a distraction from the heavy topic, he directs my hand back to his cock, invitingly bidding, "Remind me again, what’s the fun way?" 

************************* 

**Justin’s POV**

I cover my mouth as I trod through the dust and scattered materials. They’re making good progress, but I wish they’d move faster. Brian’s driving me crazy bitching and moaning about the damned apartment. What a fucking prima donna. It’s making me incredibly anxious to get settled in our new home. Just hearing it in my head brings a smile to my face. _Our_ home. I try it out loud, letting the words roll around on my tongue. 

The real estate boon of the past year definitely worked in our favor. Brian made an absolute killing on Britin, so of course he had to go overboard on this place. (Hmm. I need to come up with a name for it.) Unless I really do become the next Warhol, I’m going to be a slave to our little installment plan until I’m dead. 

The kitchen’s completely done, and I must say the best chef in the city would cream himself over it. After all, Brian will accept only premium appliances in which to store his poppers and beer and the finest marble for the counters on which to fuck me. Alex is going to flip. He really got into cooking after our lessons, so he's taken some classes at the culinary institute and has far surpassed my paltry skills. And Daphne’s head is going to explode since nearly everything is imported from Italy. She’s fallen for this guy Lucius (who she’s dubbed ‘Luscious’) from Palermo who lives in her building, and suddenly she’s hyper-aware of all things Italian. 

Even though there’s a way to go, it’s easy to visualize the final product. The rotating panels the architect found to surround our bedroom and the guest…Gus’s room are genius. They can sit open, offering a clear view of the expanse of the place, or swivel shut by remote control, and voila! Walls. 

But the piece de resistance has got to be the bathroom. Dripping with the same gorgeous marble as the kitchen, it’s got a long vanity with a sink for each of us, a separate little room for the can, a fully mirrored dressing area, towel warmers, a deluxe Jacuzzi tub and what Brian hails as ‘the most fuck friendly shower ever created’." It's large enough to comfortably fit three with a dozen little shower heads pointed in every conceivable direction. There are niches for shampoo, conditioner, soap, condoms, lube, dildos (all the essentials), chrome bars decoratively but also cleverly and conveniently placed to offer a hold when needed, and a built in bench. I expect we’re going to perpetually be very, very clean. 

I slide open the glass door leading out to the roof deck. That will be our last project. First priority is getting the inside livable. Brian’s sitting out there on our one rickety plastic lounge chair that was there when we bought the place, screaming at someone on the phone. Emerging, I hear him bark, "Just get it done, Theodore!" Wonderful. He’s in a mood. 

************************* 

**Brian’s POV**

Just as I hang up the phone, Justin walks out, splitting my legs and climbing between them on the chair, leaning back against my chest. I take a deep, stress-busting breath and wrap my arms around him. He waits quietly, sensing I need a minute to decompress. 

Thinking he's formulated a solution, he advises, "Maybe you should go to the gym." 

"Ehhh," I bleat, squinting. It's not the same here, without my workout buddies. Although picking some guy up in the locker room and ramming him until he begs for mercy has its appeal at the moment. 

Reading my mind, he guiltily guesses, "You miss Michael, don't you?" 

Hating how pathetic that sounds, I bark, "I'm just not in the mood for the fucking gym, o.k.?" 

"O.k. I was just trying to help." 

"You've 'helped' more than enough." 

"What's that supposed to mean?" Then, with a nervous tinge in his voice he asks, "Are you sorry you came here?" He pauses, waiting, but I give him nothing. Softly, sadly, he says, "Brian, I was sure you'd love New York as much as I do--the energy, the excitement. " Holding onto my hands, he offers, "But if you're unhappy, I told you I'd go back to Pittsburgh." 

Shit. Does he have to be so fucking…sweet? Like there's any way in hell I'd go skulking back with my tail between my legs. I rest my chin on his shoulder, reassuring him, "I'm not unhappy. And I don't want to go back. It’s just a challenge running a business long distance." I kiss his head, asking, "Did you see the kitchen?" 

"It’s amazing." 

"And the bathroom?" 

"The shower is indeed exceptionally fuck friendly." He bounces against my chest as I chuckle. "We should at least get another chair for out here until we redo it." 

"Why? This works just fine." Proving my point, I begin kissing the nape of his neck, my hands sliding under his shirt, wandering leisurely across his rib cage, brushing over his nipples. He twists his head around to kiss me, his hand softly resting on my cheek. The tension drains from me as he explores my mouth, his jaw opening wider and wider. I unbutton his pants, but he grabs my hand. 

"Stop. Everyone can see us," he points out, gesturing with his head to the building across the street. 

"Since when is fucking in public an issue for you?" 

"This isn’t a back room or the baths, or even your office. The Village is not just for fags anymore. Families with little kids could live there." 

I wave in the direction of the windows. "It’s a free education. They should thank us." He laughs, but doesn’t release my hand. Rolling my head back, I devise a compromise. "How’s this?" I pull his shirt over his head, draping it across his lap, then resume undoing his pants beneath the makeshift cloak. He’s still a little uptight, but that’s quickly resolved as I encircle his cock, stroking slowly with just the right amount of pressure. Melting into me, he leans his head against my shoulder, his eyes sinking shut. 

"Mmmm. That feels…" he trails off. 

"Tell me," I mumble, nibbling on his ear, his breath deepening. 

"So fucking good." 

"You like that, do you?" 

I close my fist around him just a hair, twisting my wrist as I pump. His head presses back into me in reaction, eyes remaining glued shut. "Yes," he croaks, his voice cracking. 

His mouth hangs open, pink tongue tucked behind his bottom lip, and I feel a stirring in my own groin. Beginning to groan and rock his hips, his tongue escapes its cozy little nook behind his lip, licking at it instead. He seizes a fist full of my hair, contorting his head again to plunge into my mouth, his right hand rubbing my forearm insistently, my cock twitching as if it's channeling my fondled arm. Prickles stab the back of my neck, generated by the heat from the sun, or should I say from the Sunshine. 

I carefully gauge his labored breaths, well versed in just when to slow down, speed up, emphasize a new direction, all to magnify the effect. My fingers begin to cramp, so I huskily encourage him, "Come on. Come for me, " all the while drawing his ear into my mouth, teasing it with my teeth and my tongue. 

My urging leads him to the desired threshold, whimpering like a begging puppy. I propel him toward completion, one hand jumping like a rabbit while the other dips down to tug at his balls, which seem to be on a mission to crawl up inside of him. I feel him go stiff (the parts of him that weren’t already, that is), and he crushes my chest pressing back, gathering handfuls of fabric from my pants, clutching at my thighs, his knuckles ghostly white. 

Gasping, "Harder!" he arches, panting as I obey, compressing my fist each time I approach the inflamed head. "Yes…yeah, like that. Just like that. Ohhh… oh, fuck… oh, fuuuuck!" His abdominal muscles spasm, ribbons of cum rocketing from under his tented shirt. Shit, that's an impressive load! I continue to beat his cock as he rides out his persistent tremors, until it becomes too much and he pleadingly stills me. With one last squeeze, I drain him from the base of his shaft to the tip, extracting another healthy dollop, eliciting a final string of acute muscular contractions. 

He wilts, commending me. "You're so fucking good at that." Winding around again for a much less aggressive but no less ardent kiss, he uses his shirt to wipe us both off. 

"Does this count as christening the deck?" I ponder. 

"Officially I believe there has to be penetration." 

"I see. We can't check this off of the list yet, then. Nor have we performed quality assurance on the shower." 

"While the contractor's still on the job, we really should substantiate its fuck friendliness, in case adjustments are required." 

"You're wise beyond your years." 

"I'm wise beyond yours, " he cracks, grinning at me proudly, earning him a shove. 

Retreating inside, I inform him, "You're going to have to be punished for that." Following him toward the bathroom, I grab and pinch at him playfully, inciting flinching giggles. 

Sticking his firm little bubble butt out at me, he mocks, "You're right, I've been very naughty. I deserve a spanking." I smack his protruding ass, hard, pushing him into the shower. 

After an exhaustive string of tests, we agree to award the shower the Fuck Friendly seal of approval. It's not until we step out that it dawns on us our trial may have been a bit premature. 

Standing there dripping, he notes, "I don't think we thought this through. We don't even have any towels here. And my shirt's been used as a cum rag." 

"Just throw your jeans and coat on. We'll grab a cab back to the apartment." 

"A cab? It's three blocks." 

"It's also winter. Do you want to walk it soaked and shirtless?" 

"You're right." 

"That goes without saying." 

"Brian… " I raise my eyebrows, signaling him to come out with it. "It's going to be amazing." 

"It already is. Who could want anything more in a shower?" 

"Not that. This. Our place, New York, everything." 

"Thank you, Polly Anna, " I quip. But at the moment, I believe it too. 

************************* 

**Justin's POV**

"Here you go," he says, offering me the keys. 

Shaking my head, I decline. "You do the honors." 

He unlocks the door, and we step in. Last night Reginald, the contractor, gave us the official high sign. It’s move in day. 

It takes most of the day for the furniture to be delivered and arranged…and rearranged. Brian drove the guys nuts, but then tipped them so well they left offering to come back and help him move stuff around anytime. 

Wiped out, we flop onto the sofa heads at opposite ends and my left leg draped over him. "Home sweet home, " I announce. 

"It's about fucking time." 

"I think Jared and Alex share that sentiment. They make much better friends than roommates." Taking it all in, I look to the bedroom and laugh. 

"What?" 

"I can’t believe we got the same exact bed as you have in the loft." 

"If it ain’t broke…" 

Staring into the bedroom, a nesting instinct takes over. "I've been thinking… " 

"Oh, shit." 

Unnecessary. I kick at him. "I have another rule I want to add." 

"Christ, what now?" 

"Now that we live in a place that's really both of ours…I just want it to be _our_ place. Our home." 

"It is." 

"You don't fuck anyone in our bed except me. Me either." 

"How about the shower? Or the deck?" he goads. 

Not funny. "No bringing tricks home, period." 

He looks exactly like he did when I laid down the first set of rules, kind of…vulnerable, submissive, like a little boy anxious to be loved. Very few people can make him look like that. 

His face re-Kinneyfying, he asserts, "I have one too." 

That really shocks me. "Really?" 

"Neither of us bottoms for anyone else." I burst into hysterical laughter, which seriously pisses him off. "What makes you think I can't make one of the rules." 

Forcing myself to swallow my amusement, I submit, "Let’s not use that word. A rule implies a restriction imposed upon us instead of decisions we’ve made willingly." 

Rolling his eyes, he humors me, barely. "Well, what would you like to call them?" 

I muse, "Points of agreement." It’s his turn to laugh at me. "What?" 

"Leave it to you to take three words to say what can easily be said with one. Wouldn't it be preferable to go with 'unobjectionable conditions reached by satisfactory consensus'?" 

I smirk at him. "Fine. How about…a deal. We’re establishing a mutually acceptable deal." 

"Whatever. My _terms_ are to be equally applied to the _deal_ as yours are." 

"Of course they are. But come on, Brian. That’s essentially a one sided concession. You never do it anyway!" He gets a look on his face I can’t read, a flood of doubt pouring over me. "Do you?" 

This face I can read. Imagine his expression if Melanie asked him to fuck her. (Ew. Grossed myself out.) I lean over to kiss him, and he backs his head away. Then, using the tip of my nose to draw a line across his cheek, I scribble circles on his cheekbone. 

"What the fuck are you doing?" He jerks his head away again, still annoyed I laughed at him. 

I respond by running my tongue along the curve of his ear and whispering into it, "Agreeing to your terms." Dispersed among my words are mini-kisses along his jaw line, down his neck. "You know, in a twisted…you sort of way, that’s really romantic. It might not be flowers and violins… " 

He snaps his head to face me, admonishing, "You bet your perky little ass it's not. We have an established rule banning violin music. And that’s not a ‘point of agreement’. It’s a fucking rule." 

Straining not to smile victoriously at the blatant jealously, I assure him, "It’s more than that. It’s a promise." I slide my hand inside his pants. "I love that you can’t stand the thought of anyone else inside me. It’s making me so hard…" 

In a raspy, lust-filled voice, he tries to deny it. "I never said…" 

Barely audible if not for my lips brushing right against his ear, my breath soft and hot, I sigh, "Shut up." 

He grabs my face, kissing me decisively, possessively, taking me like he’s sending a message to the world that I’m his. 

Afterwards, sated, laying on top of him, my head heavy on his chest, I point out, "I guess we can check the couch off of our christening list." He responds by smoothing my hair down. "Brian…" 

"Hmm?" 

"Welcome home." 


	19. 19 - Prepare for Launch

  
Author's notes: FYI – SBNY is an actual club (http://www.splashbar.com/).  


* * *

**Justin’s POV**

Juggling all of the bags I’m carrying, I can’t get to my keys. So I call to him through the door. Pulling it open, he cringes, “What the fuck is all this?”

“It’s for this weekend.”

“Everything’s catered.”

“Not here.” He looks at the bags, his face growing callous, and storms off. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. You needed help with the door, I opened the door. If you want to play little Suzy Homemaker, that’s your business.”

“Brian, we can’t have all those people here and not put anything out.”

“O.k. I promise I’ll put out.” That earns my that-was-so-incredibly-lame huff. “We’ve got plenty of alcohol, and I can provide a veritable buffet of recreational drugs. What more could you possibly need for a successful party?”

“With the kids here? Great idea. And not everyone’s diet is primarily liquid. Especially on a Sunday morning.”

“Fine. Do what you want.”

I put all the perishables away and amble over to the desk where he’s clicking around on the computer. Folding my arms over my chest, I stand there, waiting. Getting zero acknowledgement I ask, “Are you going to tell me what’s been up your ass all week?”

Displaying his patented Kinney smirk he snarks, “Is that what you’re upset about? That it hasn’t been you?”

He’s such a joy when he gets like this. “I’m not upset. You are. And I have no fucking idea why.” He focuses on the screen, typing and clicking away. Just a thought. If I murder him with my bare hands right now, I wonder if they’d let me off with justifiable homicide. I’ll bet if the jury was filled with people who know him they would. I grab my jacket and head for the door.

Without looking up he calls out, “Off to procure doilies and potpourri, dear? They do add such a homey touch.”

Fuck him. “I’m going to Alex’s.”

“Ah. Swapping recipes with New York’s budding Julia Child?”

“I just thought you could use a little space. I know I could.”

As I’m passing through the doorway I hear him squawk, “Don’t forget our deal. No fucking him. Although maybe you should.” His voice changes from snarling to mocking, “After all, he’s so perfect for you it’s scary.”

“Maybe I should,” I bite back, slamming the heavy door behind me. Fuming as I descend the stairs, it occurs to me he’s right. It sucks when people remember every word you say and fire them back at you like a weapon. Suddenly I stop cold. Calculating in my mind, I circle back and take the stairs two at a time.

Hearing the door as I reenter the apartment, he snipes, “What’s the matter? Did you shoot your wad in anticipation before you could even make it out of the building? Little Ricky Martin will be so disappointed.”

“Brian…” Tap, tap, click, click. He completely ignores me. My eyes begin to sting, and I shakily ask, “Did you get your results?”

His entire posture instantly changes, the ice melting. Oh, god. Please don’t let that be it. His head down, eyes closed, he takes a slow, deep breath. “Yeah.” Then he looks over at me, his hazel eyes soft, the anger gone. Shit. O.k., brace yourself, Taylor. “It’s fine. I’m negative.”

Jesus fucking Christ! I didn’t even realize how clenched my muscles were until he answered and they all turned to spaghetti. When I’m able to move I stroll over, situate myself behind the chair, and slip my arms around him. Kissing his neck, I quietly inquire, “Then what?”

He spins, pulling me down onto his lap, hand smoothing across my cheek, tucking my hair behind my ear. “Nothing. It’s nothing.” With a quick peck to the lips, he nudges me off of him and stands, walking into the bedroom.

I know better than to push too hard when it’s obvious he’s not interested in discussing his feelings. But it’s not nothing. That’s for sure.

He emerges in some of his sexiest club clothes and announces, “I’m going out.” Translation: I’m on the prowl. Again.

Head in my hands, I wrack my brains trying to figure out what’s going on with him. He’s been like this since Friday. Judging by his outfits and the dent in our supply of condoms and lube packets, I’d say he’s taking quite a bite out of the Big Apple. My mental sleuthing is interrupted by a knock at the door.

I peer through the peep hole, not recognizing the man on the other side. “Who is it?” I grin, remembering Alex’s admonishment.

“I’m looking for Brian Kinney. I’m Curtis with Excel Entertainment. We’re planning his event this Saturday.”

I open up. “Hi. Um, Brian’s not here at the moment. Can I help you with something?”

“Whoa!” he exclaims, distracted by the apartment. I clear my throat and he returns his attention to me. “You must be the boyfriend.”

Nodding, I introduce myself, holding out my hand. “I’m Justin.”

Appraising me up and down, he mutters, “No wonder he’s handed you his nuts,” accepting the handshake.

“Excuse me?”

“Sorry. It’s just…I knew Brian a long time ago, when I used to live in Pittsburgh . I thought dinosaurs would walk the earth again before Brian Kinney would be in a relationship.”

What the fuck am I supposed to say to that? Of course, I can’t argue with his thought process. “You’re not alone.” 

He begins rambling like we're suddenly best buds. “I've got to tell you, I still can't believe it. Friday night we had a meeting about his event and went to Sodom for a drink afterwards. Some guy came up, said he was glad he ran into him. Said there was one thing he forgot to sign at the bank for the new account. That he had his partner’s signature, but not his. So I mentioned I didn’t realize he had a partner in the business and he told me he didn’t. Then we took off for the…” He freezes, terrified he’s snitched.

“The back room?” He just stares. “It’s o.k. We have an arrangement.”

Intensely thankful he didn’t just screw himself out a client, he continues, “Anyway, we both drag a couple of hotties to the back room, but his gets all riled up because he won’t kiss. The guy tries to force one and Brian grabs him by his tackle and twists. Then I put it together. Told him he could knock me over with a feather, that I never in a million years imagined Brian fucking Kinney of all people would be starring in his own version of Ozzie and Harriet. Or should I say Ozzie and Harry.” He snorts, finding himself inordinately clever.

Bing! I have my answer--the question being _What Can Make Brian Kinney Freak Out_?

“Anyway, my hat's off to you.” Handing me a folder, he adds, “I told him I’d drop off this menu. It should reflect the changes he requested.”

“Thanks. I’ll make sure he gets it.”

He gives me one last lecherous eyeballing, licks his lips, and says, “Nice meeting you,” as he leaves. I drop onto the sofa, relieved and concerned at once. At least there’s nothing wrong with him. Physically, that is. But what is wrong…  The progression is becoming clear--Friday we went to Rick’s to take care of the last of the legal paperwork. Then, on his recommendation, we went over to the bank to open a joint account for household expenses. Next, apparently, he had this encounter at Sodom. I’m sure being told he’s living the life of a sappy, conventional TV drone went over like a lead balloon. On top of all that, with everyone coming in, I’ve been in full out nesting mode. The patient is suffering from severe domestic overload. Let’s face it, just one of those things is a little (no, a lot) too pseudo-hetero in his book, let alone all of them piled together in the course of a couple of days. He’s evidently on a quest to prove to himself that he hasn’t lost his edge, his fuck-everyone-I-do-what-I want spirit, his…Kinney-ness. I need to face that it’s always going to be two steps forward, one step back with him. At least hopefully just one step back. Nothing I haven’t been aware of for a long time. Unfortunately there’s not much I can do except pray he works through it. If I try to intervene, I’ll just push him further away. But it’s making me nervous as hell. 

It’s pointless to wait up, so I go to sleep. Or try to. What I really do is watch the minutes tick by until I hear the door. At 2:57. 

*************************

**Brian’s POV**

My head is throbbing. Pounding. Every unpleasant thing heads do. I think I redefined gluttony this evening. The beauty of New York is there's no need to drive to get home.

Stumbling into the bedroom, I can’t help but feel a fond smile creep across my face seeing him curled up on his side. Telltale sign. I shed my clothes and climb in, scooching up behind him, running a hand across his back and kissing his shoulder. “You can abort the performance. You won't be getting an Oscar bid this year.” 

He turns his head to me, eyes wide open, alert. “How did you know?”

“I'm familiar with how you look when you’re asleep. That wasn’t it.” Nuzzling the back of his neck with my nose, my smile fades as I murmur, “I didn’t mean to scare you.” He turns his body and knits his eyebrows, needing elaboration. “The test,” I explain. The second I heard his fear gripped voice earlier when he asked about my results, I felt like the world’s biggest shit. I had to get out of here, to figure out what the fuck I was doing. To both of us.

“It’s o.k.”

“No, it’s not. I know I’ve behaved like an asshole this week. It’s not you.”

“Yes it is. Not _me_ me, but the fact of me. Of all this. Right?” Why am I surprised? He has an irritating, albeit reassuring knack of seeing right through me. I don’t answer, but I guess that’s an answer in itself. “Brian, if you’ve changed your mind…if you’re not sure you want to do this…”

Wham! There it is again. The I’m-such-an-incredible-shit feeling. I kiss him tenderly, genuinely pledging, “I’ve never been as sure of anything in my life.” I wait a beat, then add, “Except maybe that I was a fag.” He lets out a smileless chuckle, carefully inspecting my eyes like he’s searching there for his confirmation rather than listening to my words. Finding whatever it is he was seeking, I see the acceptance settle in. I’ll never figure out why he puts up with my shit. I certainly wouldn’t.

His eyes are drooping, so I urge, “We’ve got a big weekend ahead of us. Get some sleep.” He curls back into me, pulling my arm around him, peacefully conking out as I bury my face in his hair, rehashing the past few hours. As I was being sucked off by some muscle bound stud and later pounding yet another random first rate ass, all I could think was would I want to go back to this--just this--as my life? Every night? Then home to an empty bed, or bringing some trick home and waking up hung over to the job of kicking out the strange, unwelcome face?

Like I’d told him, fucking’s only ever been about getting off to me. That and the thrill of the chase, the rush of the vanquishing, the power of being incessantly sought after. Of being revered for it. And that was enough. Fuck, I thought that was everything. Until him. But now there's no going back to thinking that's the ultimate in satisfaction. No unlearning that there can be more. Or that above all I want the more. So I make a decision. Before I permanently blow it, no matter how much it makes me sound like some pathetic character out of a god damned Hallmark Hall of Fame melodrama, I firmly resolve to stop railing against the best thing that ever fucking happened to me. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

In the morning, or should I say early afternoon, he trods into the kitchen wearing only his tightie whities, stretching and wiping his eyes. “What are you doing?”

“Making shit. Apparently there’s some law we can’t have all those people here and not serve anything.” He watches me for a moment, trying to discern if he’s woken up to Dr. Jekyll or Mr. Hyde. “Get your ass over here and make yourself useful.”

Walking around the island, he slinks behind me, hugging me around the waist, using my bare back to prop himself up. I can feel his wake-up woody against my ass (I've ceased calling it his morning woody since he so often wakes up when morning’s just a memory). He sighs deeply, his cheek pressed between my shoulder blades, dying to ask if I’m o.k. If we’re o.k. It’s so loud in his head I swear I can hear it. Oh lord, save me from another heart-to-heart. Maybe I can telepathically send him the all clear.

What do you know, an answered prayer. Instead of a chat, his hand slithers south, cupping my cock through my sweats. Lifting his head, his lips against my back, he hums, “How’s this for being useful?”

I take hold of his upper arm, swinging him around until he’s in front of me, backed up against the counter. “Personally I find it immensely productive, but I don’t think everyone would appreciate being served what you'd produce.”

“They don’t know what they’re missing.”

“And they never will,” I assert. He continues kneading my cock as I try to concentrate on wrapping up my canapés. “I’m fairly certain our guests would find jizz in the kitchen highly unsanitary.”

“It doesn’t matter. They won’t be in here until Sunday and Olivia’s coming tomorrow.”

“Who?” 

“Olivia.” Repeating it doesn’t help. I let him know facially. “The cleaning lady.”

“She has a name?”

“You…” he laughs, giving me a little you’re-hopeless slap. I grin, kissing him insistently, bending him backwards over the counter. As I let him up, he straightens and reaches around, twisting himself in an effort to look at his back. “What the fuck just got all over me?” 

Bending around to investigate, I lick at the tacky substance on his skin. “Honey, honey.” I tease, smiling devilishly. Hmm. I couldn’t have planned this better if…well, if I had planned this.

*************************

**Justin’s POV**

With a delighted wiggle of my eyebrows, I suggest, “Guess you’ll have to come shower with me. There’s no way I can scrub this off by myself.”

“I have a better idea,” he proposes, swiveling me. With a flat, wide, wet tongue he licks a long line across my sticky spine. Experiencing the stubbornness of the clinging matter, he licks again, applying more pressure, causing my breath to hitch as he does. He proceeds to orally remove it, slowly. Agonizingly slowly. Groaning with pleasure, I fall against the counter, folding forward onto the offending surface to support myself, my legs weakening in the wake of his unrelenting lapping, performed more at this point to enhance my burgeoning arousal than to be thorough in his cleansing.

I hook my thumbs into my underwear, preparing to slide them down. “Uh uh,” he instructs, stopping my hands. Taking a last, delicious lick from the small of my back up to my neck, he rotates me, lifting me until I’m perched on the cold, sticky marble. With the same lethargic pace employed on my back he attends to my now glazed abdomen, sporadically bumping against my rigid cock as my fingers disappear in his hair. Dragging his tongue down, he tantalizingly closes his mouth over my dick, the fabric trapping the damp warmth of his breath against me. He slides his mouth back and forth along my length, his lips pressing the cotton against the sensitive flesh beneath. Kissing his way back to my balls, he scrapes his teeth lightly against my shaft, eliciting a strangled cry from the depths of my throat. He lifts my legs and crouches lower, puffing hot air from his gut onto my ass, biting at the material between us.

Oh, god…I can’t take it a minute longer. Desperate to eliminate the barrier, I wriggle urgently, my hands tearing at it. He completes the task, reaching over for a condom, or so I think. But what returns instead is the small pot of honey he had warming on the stove. Dipping a digit to test the temperature, he seductively sucks the syrupy varnish from his finger as I gaze, his cheeks hollowing, making my dick twitch with envy. He holds the pot over me, drizzling the tepid, viscous contents, decorating my cock, my balls, my pubes, letting it soothingly drip down like molasses, the warmth a languidly expanding coating.

“Feel good?” he needles.

My response isn’t technically language of any sort, but it clearly communicates my ecstasy nonetheless. Setting the pan down, he dives down to enjoy his creation. Attacking the area he just adorned, he consumes the gloppy shell with incomparable fervor, the room floating and spinning as my orientation wavers. Oh, fuck! His tongue zealously tickles my spot, that spot behind my balls he knows to touch to drive me absolutely wild. It's replaced by his fingertips as he swallows me fully and I’m blindsided by a massive surge, blasting him without warning. Ever the pro, he deftly devours my sweetened release, not a drop spared.

Completely winded, chest heaving and hands covering my eyes as I strive to calm my internal whirlwind, I miss his subsequent actions. Only when I feel him push my knees to my chest, the heavenly flow cascading down my crack do I wonder if it's possible to literally go insane from excessive stimulation.

“Oh, god…Brian…please…”

“Please what?” he baits. Again he feasts, his tongue tormentingly swabbing at my ass, savoring the flavors commingling at the sensory edges of my seizing hole, raspy as it repeatedly swipes, my hands slapping painfully on the slab of rock supporting me.

“Please…please…please…please…” There's no voice to my plea, only ejected air and puckered lips. All conscious function has left my brain. I'm reduced to physical reflexes, slipping around the marble as I writhe, my back slick from sweat and the residue of his tongue bath, my back burning from the increasing friction.

At last he asks, “Are you ready for my dick?”

Fuck yes! But my eager approval can't be heard, brain function being non-existent and all. I can't even force my eyes open to send him a visual message. I can only manage a tiny mewl, but it's enough. He frees himself of his sweatpants and suits up, roughly pulling me down, flipping me around, sublimely spearing me. I rock back against him as he impales me again and again, my arm flying back, gripping the meat of his thigh, fingernails digging in. He slumps over me, his solid chest heated against my back, his arms locked around my rib cage. His thrusts grow quicker, shorter, and the crush of my torso divulges how close he is. My hand abandons his thigh to stroke myself, determined to come together, timing my motions deliberately. 

He assists me in my mission, although I'm not sure it's intentional, implementing the latest stunt we’ve discovered triggers me instantly. “Unnhhh….Justin…” he moans, erupting inside me, my muscles becoming a vice around him. His teeth sink into my back as he shudders, his weight bearing down. I successfully join him, spurting another candied load as I howl. Gathering strength, he pulls out, discarding the condom, rubbing his still crimson dick against my ass, my lower back, drawing on my skin with his emission still clinging to him. Deflating, we collapse to the floor, my entire worn body leaning against him, my head on his shoulder. Spying the film still adhering to him I double over, enveloping his withering dick in my mouth as he wearily bucks, sampling the delectable taste, a magnificent union of him, me, honey. 

Wheezing, I remark, “Is it my imagination, or do we just keep getting better at that?” Resuming my upright position, he answers with a kiss. Then he mumbles under his breath, “I'll bet Ozzie never fucked Harriet's brains out quite like that.”

“Huh?” He just shakes his head, conveying the comment wasn’t really meant for my ears. “I’d better shower. I have to be at the gallery by four and I have a few things I have to get done before then. Are you going over to the hotel?”

“Yeah. I want to see Gus before we go to your show. I’ll just take a cab over with everyone.”

Trying to muster up the motivation to move, I declare, “You know what?”

“Hmm?”

“Honey is my new favorite food.”

*************************

**Michael’s POV**

“Why don’t you get some sleep. We still have about an hour’s ride, and we’re going to be running around like crazy this weekend.”

“Michael, would you stop? I’m fine. You heard the doctor. He gave me a clean bill of health,” Ben chastises, giving me a would-you-please-calm-down peck on the cheek. “I’m going to go sit with Hunter for a little while.”

I’m trying not to be on him all the time. I really am. But it’s not going very well. At least he knows it’s because I love him so much. Besides, he’s familiar with my mother. The Novotnys are not exactly a “let it be” sort of clan. 

The seat beside me isn’t empty for two minutes before a fresh ass plunks down in it. “Hi, sweetie!”

“Hi, Ma.” 

“One of the boys who works for Brian is the kid of Carl’s old partner. They haven’t stopped yapping since we hit the road,” she bitches.

“Hard to believe somebody can talk non-stop like that, huh,” I tease. Whoosh! Right over her head.

“I didn’t even know buses came this nice! The seats are like a fuckin’ La-Z-Boy, and all these little TVs to play movies on are too much. Of course leave it to your friend to charter a vacation on wheels and only have old James Dean DVDs on board.”

“And Yellow Submarine. What the fuck’s that about?” 

She shrugs. “It’s so nice you and Ben are going to get a little time together for some…” She pumps her fist forward with characteristic delicacy.

“MA!” She lives to embarrass me. I’m completely convinced of it. “Anyway, when exactly would that be? Brian’s staff may have plenty of free time, but not us. I mean by the time we get to the hotel we have to change and run to Justin’s show. Tomorrow we have to take Hunter to tour NYU during the day, then at night we have Brian’s launch party. Sunday morning we’re going over to Brian and Justin’s, and from there we're jumping on the bus again to head for home. And stuffed in there somewhere is spending as much time as possible with JR.”

“Well, I think it was sweet of Brian to plan his party the same weekend as Sunshine’s show and then bring us all in so we could be at both. I can’t believe he’s bussing his entire staff to New York and putting them up.”

“I guess. You might not want to call him sweet to his face though.”

“I didn’t just meet him, baby.” She pats my cheek.

“I’m not surprised he’s doing it. The one thing nobody can argue with is Brian's loyalty. He recognizes his staff is a big part of the reason the agency’s successful enough to even attempt the expansion. He shouldn’t be doing this though.”

“Why the fuck not?” 

“According to Justin, between the money they spent on their apartment and what he’s invested in the New York office, if it doesn’t take off and quickly, he’s in deep shit trouble.”

“So why’s he doing it?” she squeaks, suddenly concerned.

I think for a minute, coming up with the obvious answer, “Because he’s Brian.” 

We’re barely off the bus before we’re jammed into cabs heading toward the little gallery holding Justin’s first solo show. I’m not really an art connoisseur, but the stuff Justin’s showing is pretty cool. Can’t say I like it as much as his Rage art, but to each his own. The snooty types around the room seem to be duly impressed.

Justin makes his way over to us, thanking us all for coming. Lindsay beams, “Your own New York show. I told you this would happen for you!”

“Thanks, Linds. It's not Annina Nosei, but…”

“They didn't say no,” injects this guy Gregory. I think he's his agent or whatever. “They just said they wanted to see you again when you had a larger body of work for them to consider. You’re not ready for them yet. If they mean no, believe me, they're not shy about saying it.”

“They'll be kicking themselves they didn't jump to show you when they had the chance,” Lindsay promises.

“If you'll excuse us, I need Justin to wow the patrons.” Justin waves to us, rolling his eyes dramatically as Gregory drags him away.

“Oh my god!” Emmett gasps. We all turn to see what's got him so excited. “That is the most beautiful man I think I've ever seen!”

“Except me, you mean,” ribs Lyle.

Without averting his eyes, Emmett reaches back to pat Lyle's arm. His mind miles away (well, feet away actually), he mutters, “Of course, baby. Of course.” 

Just then we see Justin walk up to the object of Emmett's fascination and whisper something in his ear they both find comical. I speculate, “I think that's Alex.”

“Who?” Ted asks.

I slyly reply, “Justin's silver medalist bottom.”

“Oooooh,” Ted and Emmett respond together. Ted shakes his head in his customary life's-not-fair way and whines, “Justin gets Brian, Connor James, and this object of male perfection. He's got to be the luckiest fag ever.”

“Maybe it's not luck. Maybe he's just that good,” Ben taunts. He, Lindsay, Blake and Lyle bite back hysterics, amused by our faces as we ponder that prospect. 

Scanning the room, Lindsay smiles, her hand flattening against her chest just beneath her throat. I follow her gaze and join the chain, watching her watching Brian who's watching Justin. She's all doe eyed over the way Brian can't take his eyes off him, looking about as proud as I've ever seen him. I can't fault her though. I have to admit it’s kind of touching. Then Brian approaches Justin and Alex (or who I'm guessing is Alex), and Justin slides his hand up to the back of Brian's neck, pulling him down for a lengthy kiss, both of them grinning from ear to ear. The three of them turn to face one of the paintings, chatting away. I didn't realize they were all friends now. If I were Brian, I wouldn't want Justin hanging out with this outlandishly hot guy he used to fuck on a regular basis, and who was apparently pretty good at it. Of course, that thought started with the nonsensical phrase, “If I were Brian…” 

After the show, Brian and Justin discuss where to take us all. “Let's go to Rise. It'll blow them away…or maybe they'll just get blown,” Brian proposes.

“I'm sick of Rise,” Alex pipes up.

“How about SBNY? Full Frontal Fridays tonight,” Justin notes. He turns to us and explains, “This place is like Babylon on speed.”

“Sounds like our destination then,” Ben decides for us all.

There's a line around the block, but Brian whispers something in the bouncer's ear and our entire mob is ushered in. The dance floor is packed and Brian starts to pull me away, stopping to defer to Ben, “If it's all right with your husband.” Ben gives a nod, and we snake through the crowd to a spot away from the others. Brian produces a popper from his pocket, bringing it to his nose, then holding it out to me. What the fuck. I join him, humiliatingly giddy at the validation that I still have a special place with him and always will.

He puts his arms around my neck and says, “Brian and Mikey, together again.”

“I miss you,” I mope. “It's so weird at home with you gone.”

He kisses me square on the lips, offering, “I miss you too, Mikey. But I'll be back often enough.” 

“You seem happy.” He shrugs noncommittally, but his enormous smile concurs. We sway to the music and I close my eyes, letting myself roll back the clock a few years, memories of past dances whirling before my eyes. After a few songs, Brian decides to find Justin and they disappear for a while (gee, I wonder what they could be up to). But they return eventually to dance with us until the wee hours of the morning. By the time we stumble out, it's past 4:30.

“They're not kidding when they call this the city that never sleeps, are they?” I observe.

“Rest up, boys,” Brian cautions. “I expect you to be bright eyed and bushy tailed for our next round of merriment later this evening.”

After barely any sleep, Ben and I check out the NYU campus with Hunter. It'll make me feel much better to know that if he comes here, Brian and Justin are nearby. Hunter seems hell bent on this place. He says that this is one of the few schools where if word got out about his past it would grant him street cred, not exile. I'm trying to not even think about the money. Most parents get the kid's entire life to save for education. We only got a couple of years. Afterwards we go back to the hotel to nap before Brian's party (I think I'll neglect to mention that to him, to avoid the ridicule), just to be sure we can remain somewhat alert. 

When the cab pulls up to Kinnetik New York, I'm positive there's been some glaring error. But as we walk into the building, I discover I'm wrong. Justin bops over to welcome us.

“Brian built his New York office in a _church_?” I stammer.

He laughs, “I know. Actually, this was originally a church, but some guys bought it a couple of years ago and turned it into a club called Worship. They even made the clergy office into a back room and the pulpit into a bar. The people who used to attend the church were all up in arms, protested, made a big stink, but the publicity only served to make it the hottest gay dance club in the city for a while. I came a few times when I first got here. It was pretty cool. But once the furor died down, so did the popularity and it went under. Only Brian would build one office on the site of defunct baths and the other in an old church/gay club, huh?”

He's interrupted by the sound of tapping on a microphone. We work our way up front to hear Brian speak. “I want to thank all of you for coming to celebrate the launch of Kinnetik New York . When I started my own agency I knew I had the goods to make it a success, but with support from my staff and clients, from every one of you here today, we surpassed even my most ambitious expectations. You know, when I decided to launch a New York office, my competition scoffed at the location I selected. ‘How do you think you're going to attain a reputation as a top New York firm so far from Madison Avenue?’ they asked. I told them Kinnetik doesn't need to rely on a Madison Avenue address for cachet. Because we don't follow the trends, we set the trends others follow. Our reputation will be built on the solid foundation of our results.” He pauses for the deafening cheers and applause. “As for the Pittsburgh office, rest assured it will be in very capable hands. When I'm not able to be there ..um, can Cynthia and Ted come up here?” They join him, looking confused. “Please join me in congratulating my new General Manager in charge of running the Pittsburgh office in my absence, and the CFO of Kinnetik, Inc.” Shocked, they both embrace him, thanking him profusely. Brian signals for Justin to bring up some glasses. “To Kinnetik New York ,” he toasts, leading our echo, popping open a bottle of champagne. He pours it, clinking glasses with Cynthia, Ted and Justin before they drain them, practically lifting Justin off the ground in a sweeping kiss.

After another evening of serious partying, we pile into cabs once again bound for Brian and Justin's housewar…um, to hang out at Brian and Justin's (we're all under Justin's strict instructions not to call it a housewarming party). There's a trendy overpriced coffee shop under their apartment, and I can't help but think they probably felt they'd won the lottery when Brian moved in. I'll bet they make a mint on his lattes alone. We reach the top floor and bang on the huge, beautiful carved wood door. It’s gorgeous, but it seems so…un-Brian. Until they open it.

There's a smattering of “Holy shit!”s as we enter and tour the apartment, including a particularly loud one from me. Jesus! When Justin told me they'd spent a shitload, he wasn’t kidding.

“A bigger, better fuck pad,” Jennifer deadpans. Then she smiles, adding, “It's beautiful, sweetheart.”

Pouring myself a Pepsi and Ben some tea, I ask, “Do you have any honey?” People put that in tea a lot, right? Because Ben always does. But Brian and Justin look at each other with these huge goofy smiles like it’s a funny request. It does remind me of what I came in with though.  

“Oh, Brian. I brought you the glasses.” Several of their drinking glasses broke in the move, so I picked up a few to fill in their set for them.

“Thanks, Mikey. How much?” He begins writing, and I note he’s got starter checks. 

“New account?” I wonder. He nods. “I guess there’s no Liberty Federal here.”

“Fuck!” Brian jumps, throwing the checkbook at me as he dashes to stop an adventurous Gus who’s about to step out onto the roof unattended.

Justin walks over, looking questioningly at my hand. I feel oddly defensive, like he caught me trying to steal from Brian or something. I explain, stuttering, “I brought you guys the new glasses. Brian was just reimbursing me. But he had to transform into Rage to rescue Gus from mortal danger.”

“Oh, here,” he says, taking the checks from me. “I’ll do it.”

“You can sign Brian’s checks?”

“It’s a joint account,” he responds, blasé. It’s a WHAT? My ears are not operating properly. They can’t be. Not that I really believe Brian would ever deny Justin, or me for that matter, anything money can buy. But free rein to access his account…or I guess _their_ account…

Brian returns, danger averted, and laughs, “ It’s o.k., Mikey. I caught him. Christ, you look like you smoked some bad shit. We’re just going to have to do a little Gus-proofing if he’s going to visit.” He ruffles my hair, heading off to talk with Emmett and Lyle. 

Ben sidles up next to me, reminiscing with Justin, “Do you remember when you were helping Michael and me paint our house? I told you we'd return the favor when you and Brian got a house, and you were so sure it would never happen. Didn’t I tell you, ‘You never know’? Life can surprise you.”

“No shit,” I mutter, looking down at the check.

“Justin!” exclaims Lindsay, rooted in front of a gigantic canvass hanging on the longest wall. “It's…I'm speechless.” He blushes. “Better not let Gregory see it. He'll break in just to be able to show it.”

As if on cue, the phone rings. Brian picks up, saying into it, “Hey, Greg! Ears burning?” I can tell by the look on his face that one of Brian's favorite new pastimes is getting under this guy’s skin. He hands the phone over to Justin.

“Gregory, slow down. I can’t understand what you’re…No, I haven't seen it yet. We have people over…O.k., o.k. I will. Bye.” He hangs up, asking Brian, “Do we have the Sunday Times? Gregory's flipping out, saying I have to look at the front page of Arts & Design, NOW.”

Brian retrieves the paper from the desk and turns to the section. Justin ducks inside the circle formed by his torso, his outstretched arms and the paper as Brian reads aloud over his shoulder:

> Last year I came across a glowing Simon Caswell review of an unknown artist from Pittsburgh in _Art Forum_. Intrigued, I made a mental note to keep an eye out for his work on the local scene. Not long afterwards, this young man's name appeared as a selection for the exclusive Fabre's Five Finds Gala. At that show I found Mr. Caswell’s high opinion to be warranted, the work as fresh and exhilarating as described. Since then, quickly infiltrating every list of New York 's hottest new talents is the increasingly venerated Justin Taylor, whose first solo exhibit opened Friday night at Chelsea 's small but prominent Phillipe Ross Gallery. I attended with great anticipation, curious if Mr. Taylor’s latest endeavors would sustain the exceptional quality of his prior efforts. They did not. Rather they transcend his previous work as he continues to hone his craft, infusing it with a growing maturity. Although a variety of techniques and materials have been utilized, the collection presents a distinguishing common thread. Every piece is bold, vibrant, unflinching, declarative; none suited for the weak of heart. What makes them even more remarkable is that despite their strength, they avoid the aggressive in-your-face dynamic often displayed by those with a similar aesthetic, eliminating our defensive reflexes and setting the stage for a willing absorption of his message. The origin of his style becomes clear when you meet him. The work perfectly reflects the compelling intelligence and allure of the artist himself. If you are prone to appreciate only bucolic scenes or tranquil landscapes, Mr. Taylor will not be your cup of tea. But for those who prize art that grabs you by the short hairs and demands that you react, you are in for a treat.

Wow! I may not know a lot about the art world, but I do know that was a fucking awesome review. Brian whispers something that makes Justin’s entire face glow even more than the article, and the rest of us jump up to hug and congratulate him. Lindsay in particular is having trouble containing herself, and my ears are bleeding from the notes emanating from my mother.

Riding back to Pittsburgh, my thoughts return to their trip back in time. Lost in images of endlessly driving Brian home, dancing with him at Babylon, laying on the floor of the loft getting high, climbing into the jeep as he first laid eyes on Justin, standing behind the counter of the store when this breathtaking professor strode in the door, I’m pulled back to the present by Ben. 

“What are you thinking about?” he asks, taking my hand in his. 

“Me and Brian. How not that long ago our lives were completely different. If someone tried to tell me then that a few years down the line we’d both have our own businesses, we’d both become fathers for Christ’s sake, that we’d _both_ make a home with the man we love…” I shake my head at the inconceivability of it all. “I would have thought there’d be a better chance of Captain Astro materializing and taking a stock boy job at the Big Q.” He takes my face in his hands and kisses me. Resting my head on his shoulder, I sigh, “Like you said to Justin, life can sure as hell surprise you.” 


	20. 20 - Holy Bonds

  
Author's notes: My "Season 6" Finale. I decided to wrap it up angst free, with an extra serving of shmoop! Thanks so much to everyone who took the time to read my story. Through all of your encouragement and support, y'all have made my first fic writing experience truly wonderful. I hope it offered you what it afforded me–an infinitely more satisfactory conclusion for our favorite couple (although I have not ruled out the possibility of a sequel–after a brief hiatus).  


* * *

**Justin’s POV**

“You’ll break your hand before you break down that door,” I shout to whoever is frantically banging.

“Oh my god! It happened! It finally happened!” Daphne gushes, grabbing my arms and bouncing up and down as I let her in.

“Brad and Angelina adopted you?”

“No,” she giggles, whacking me. “Luscious and I went out tonight, and I finally got fed up with him being such a fucking gentleman. So I jumped him!”

“Congratulations, Daph,” I chuckle, giving her a hug. I grab a couple of beers and a bag of chips, leading her out onto the deck.

“Uh, it’s still a little cold out for this, isn’t it?”

“Brian had outdoor heaters installed so we can use the deck all year round.”

“You must be kidding.” I give her my best Vanna White arm sweep, presenting them. “What’s that?” she asks, pointing toward the ledge.

“It’s a privacy fence.” I demonstrate, unfolding it until it’s fully extended. “Brian had it put up because I wouldn’t fuck him out here otherwise.”

“So, wait. You’re telling me you guys make love on the roof, under the stars?”

I can tell by her tone she’s getting at something, but I have no idea what. “Yeeeaaahhh…” I draw out, curious.

Her face gets this obnoxiously smug smirk. “Remember when you were trying to convince me Ethan was the end all, be all of romance? You bragged about how you guys made love on the roof under the stars, and that you never did anything like that with Brian.”

Oh yeah. A self-satisfied grin unfurls across my face. “Well I hadn’t yet. Brian’s since discovered his inner romantic.”

“You mean as evidenced by his proposing, or buying a friggin’ mansion?” she says in her distinct DUH voice.

“Like keeping it even after I moved here because it was my dream house.”

Her jaw drops. “You guys still own that house? _And_ this place?”

“No. We had to make a trade off. Britin for this.” My finger plays with my ring through my shirt and I consider telling her about the inscription, but I clam up. There are some things I want to keep for myself.

“God, Justin.” She’s as flabbergasted as I was.

“I know.” We sit on the new teak lounge chairs, enjoying our little paradise in the city. I turn to hand her the joint I lit and see she’s in another world.

“O.k. Tell me.”

“It. Was. AWESOME! You know the reputation Italian men have as exceptional lovers? Well, let’s just say the man represented. It was far and away the best sex I ever had. Not that I have Brian’s or your illustrious basis for comparison.”

I snort a fake laugh. “Are you trying to tell me he’s better than _me_?” I prod, teasing.

She rolls her eyes. “At least _he_ took my bra off.”

“Well what the fuck did I want with those things?” I defend, waving my index finger in the general direction of her breasts.

“You weren’t the point, darling,” she chastises, flinging a chip at me, cracking us both up. She’s so gaga over this guy, she’s practically airborne. “It was totally like getting into a Ferrari after you’ve only ever driven a Hyundai. No offense. It’s just he’s an aficionado of my particular brand of equipment.”

Fair enough. “So unlike your last pathetic boyfriend, he was able to give you …”

Grinning the most outrageously enormous grin I’ve ever seen, she holds up her hand, all five fingers outstretched.

“No shit!” I reply, impressed.

“It was unreal, like he was fluently reading my body. Without my saying a word, every time I wanted him to speed up or slow down, touch me somewhere, be more gentle or a little rougher, he was right on it. And he’s the first guy to ever find my G-spot. Direct hit. I was starting to think the fucking thing was a myth. Oh, baby, is it real!”

“Want to make sure you’re a Ferrari to him too? One word. Prostate.” She scrunches her nose. “Trust me.” I emphasize my point with raised eyebrows. Confident, I declare, “You know, you’d hold me in higher esteem if I could have given you a blow job.”

“Girls are not incapable of receiving oral sex, you know.” EWWWW! My entire body reacts as if I’ve just taken a swig of six month old milk. “Chill out, Casanova. I wasn’t making a request. Just educating the uninitiated.”

“Thanks, but I plan to remain uninitiated in that particular activity until I die.”

“What particular activity is that?” inquires an unusually rumpled Brian, joining us outside.

I leap up and attack him, kissing him energetically until we both start to have similarly directed blood flow. “Believe me, you don’t want to know. What the fuck happened to you?”

“An hour on the tarmac with no air circulation is what happened to me. Fucking incompetent air traffic controllers. It must have been a hundred and fifty degrees in that god damned tin can. Hi, Daphne. I’m going to take a shower. I must stink.”

I breathe in heavily, pressing my nose against his chest. “Mmmm hmmm,” I groan, looking up at him hungrily, licking my lips. He smells like sweat and whiskey and cigarettes, like him only amplified, and his potent musk has my hormones in an instant tizzy. His fatigued expression shifts as he sees my eyes ignite and he pulls me in for another kiss, his tongue delving deeply into my mouth as he slides his leg between mine, his thigh pressing up against my dick, his own grinding against my hip. 

From behind us comes a lilting voice, “Not that I don’t enjoy watching two hot guys hump each other, but I think it’s time for me to pull that fence shut and disappear.”

Brian responds without letting go or breaking eye contact with me. “Don’t bother. You ladies finish your visit.” His eyes, however, are clearly instructing me to get rid of her ASAP. I smile in acknowledgement and he releases me, walking over to give Daphne a kiss on the cheek. I notice with a snicker, however, he stands back from her enough so she doesn’t bump his raging hard-on. 

Once he’s back inside I turn to her, needling, “So, you think I’m hot?”

Her face becomes as flushed as mine, of course not for the same reason. “Shut up. You know you are.” True. I do. Still, it’s always nice to hear. Even from a female. A slightly awkward silence creeps in and I fidget, devising a plan to eject her diplomatically. 

She begins chattering, “So anyway, I have to tell you _everything_. I knew I wanted it to be ‘the night,’ so I wore my little black lace dress. You know, the one that makes my boobs look awesome. Then, at around seven he picked me up. Wait, first he called at about 6:30 to tell me he was on his…” The last few words trip out as she nearly busts a gut laughing. “You should see your face! Don’t worry, I’m not an idiot. I know when to make myself scarce.” She jumps up and shoves her bottle into one of my hands and the chips into the other. I follow her inside where Brian is flipping through the mail. Shit. The only thing sexier than Brian dressed to the nines is Brian disheveled. I unconsciously usher her out a little faster. As she retreats, she holds her hand up with a sardonic grin, exaggeratedly wiggling her five fingers, singing, “Bye-bye, boys!”

Brian peers up at her, mockingly inquisitive. “Do you two have some special secret super cool handshake or something?”

“Not exactly,” I explain, skating over and pressing myself up against him, snatching the mail from his hand and returning it to the table. Flirtatiously I kiss his nose, his chin, his Adam’s apple. “She finally got laid last night.”

“That’s my girl. So is Luscius luscious after all?” he asks, his hands crawling under my shirt, coasting up and down my back, his voice husky and low.

“Scrumptious it seems.” I point my tongue, wiggling it in his ear, his stomach contracting, a tiny huff escaping. “Not only did he give her the big O, he gave her five of them.”

He pulls back, his admiration apparent on his face. “Five? Nice.”

“I was thinking…”

“Here we go.”

He’s so predictable. “You claim that everything’s a competition,” I remind him, the tips of my finger slipping under his waistband. “We can’t let some hetero chick outdo us, can we?”

His eyes closed, he tilts his head back, swallowing laboriously as my hands sink lower, massaging his ass. “I’ll make you a deal. I’ll help you crush her record if you reciprocate.”

With my hand strong on the back of his neck, righting his head, I offer, “Shall we seal it with a kiss?” 

He tucks his tongue into his cheek, unveiling a better idea. “How about something a little more ‘binding’?” He grabs his loosened tie, removing it from his neck and snapping it taught before me.

“Have I ever told you you’re a genius?”

“It’s understood.”

*************************

**Brian’s POV**  

“Last one to the bed gets tied up,” he challenges, preparing to dash.

My arm becomes iron around his waist. “Think again, Jesse Owens. My idea. My tie. My preference.”

“You just know you can’t beat me,” he taunts.

“Is that what you think? I beat you all the time,” I remind him, grabbing his cock. “And you love it.”

Against my throat, he mutters, “Fuck yeah, I do.”

I walk toward the bed with him waddling backwards in front of me, kissing newly exposed flesh as he unbuttons my shirt. I have to pause when he takes my nipple in his teeth and tugs, his tongue tracking back and forth over the clamped tissue, my legs threatening to buckle. He takes advantage of the hesitation, using the opportunity to drop to his knees, opening my fly to reveal the spreading wet stain I already leaked onto my shorts. Using his fingertips, he traces the outline of my cock with a light pressure before he helps me step out of any covering below my waist, engaging in his favorite oral fixation. If the stench that clouded me when I first came in served as an aphrodisiac for him, the added aroma of my hot, wet, trapped cock sends him to the moon. I suck in my breath as he takes me to my root, tickling my cock-head with the back of his throat, massaging the underside with his tongue, his nose and lips hidden by my coarse hair. He grabs my ass and pulls me toward him as if he can’t get enough, as if he’s itching for another inch or two or three to fill him, and I’m not sure where I’m finding the wherewithal not to fuck his mouth. God, this feels like heaven. No, even heaven can’t be _this_ good. Nothing else can. Not this fucking goo…ohhhh, shit. He’s licking up my shaft, slurping as he reaches the ridge near the tip, his tongue circling the perimeter. At the same time he cups my balls, rolling them, taking notice of the changing timbre of my moans as he does. Dispatching his fist to save his lips’ place around my cock, he draws my nut (the real one) into his mouth, suctioning extensively. FUCK! Mini explosions detonate all over my entire body. Then he licks around to the back, my legs involuntarily spreading wider, allowing his tongue to slip further to the base of my crack, chewing on the skin between that spot and my balls, placing his head directly between my legs, the silky strands of his hair that brush my inner thighs sending a shiver up my spine. In an embarrassingly short period of time I hit that wall, that point of no return, and he senses it instantly. No need to tell him. He’s well acquainted with every detail of my MO, maybe more so than I am. Wanting to drink me in, he swallows my cock just before I blow, guzzling as if I’m dispensing the nectar of the gods.

He rises triumphant, drenched in the smell and taste of me, nuzzling me and ticking off, “That’s one for you.”

Breathing heavily, I suggest, “I think that one deserves extra credit.”

“No cheating,” he warns. 

“I wasn’t implying I needed handicapping of some sort to reach our goal, you little shit. Learn how to take a compliment.” I shove him backwards until he flops onto the bed and we both shed the remainder of our clothing. Leaping upon him like a stage diving rock star, I tie his wrists together above his head and then to the bed frame with my favorite red silk Hermes tie (I really should keep cheap ties around for such occasions), sucking his ensnared fingers until he struggles impatiently. I slide my lips down his arms, sucking and licking along the way, exerting a little extra pressure as I reach his pit, causing him to gasp and squirm. I stall there, playing with the soft hair and absorbing his scent, quickly developing a sharpness akin to my own. I continue down his side, avoiding his most sensitive regions, and skitter down his thigh, lifting his leg and tickling the back of his knee with my tongue. With little nips along his muscular calf I reach his foot. His breathing quickens, his eyes lowering to watch my progress. I scrape my cheek against his instep, the prickly growth I’ve sprouted by this time of day exfoliating the touchy skin there. My lips surround his big toe first, then methodically titillate the increasingly diminutive ones down the line. He grunts in frustration, yanking his arms, yearning to grab his disregarded dick, the bed shimmying with the force as the tie restrains him.

“Brian…” he whines as I switch to his other foot, his whole body undulating, whizzing past simply turned on at a hundred miles an hours. Climbing up his body, I painstakingly rub continuously against his granite cock, starting with my nose, pausing to nibble the tip, and pressing against it along the length of my body until our hips are aligned, him clamoring each tortured moment for relief. We rut against one another, our dicks and balls grinding together as hard as our mouths, so savage with each other you’d think we’d been told this was our last fuck. I sandwich my hand between our chests, pawing and pinching his nipple, twisting it tenaciously between my fingers. Ripping his mouth away, he groans, banging his head against my shoulder as he comes between us, the heated pumping of his pipe against my own, so hard by now it hurts, sets me off, our blended cum squishing across our mashing bellies. The sensation of our hot, pulsating cocks in contact, the ridge of my head skipping against his as we shoot is overpowering, and I collapse on top of him, both of us still thrusting and moaning despite our completed discharge. We’re gulping for air, affected by the exertion though not altogether spent, neither of us really fully softening. Jesus fucking Christ. I’ve shot two substantial loads and nobody’s had a dick up their ass yet! And I’ve still got some wood. Not a bad start.

It seems he really can read my thoughts, because sounding asthmatic he demands, “Fuck me!”

Oy. “Can I get thirty seconds?”

He jerks his body upwards, jostling me, unwilling to allow me to regroup. Buying myself some time, I slide back down toward the foot of the bed, stopping to lap at his iced torso, tasting the fusion of us, then tossing his legs over my shoulders to achieve the optimum rimming position. He bucks and flails, and when I work up to a three digit finger fuck while sucking greedily on his balls he turns feral, his captivity driving him over the edge. Concerned he might damage himself (or more importantly my $150 tie), I release him from his bondage. Once free he determinedly grips my head, assaulting my mouth with his lips, his teeth, his roughly invading tongue. One hand flies clumsily from my head to my cock, placing the head at his eager hole.

Good lord! “Wait! Let me put a fucking condom on.” I don one as quickly as I can manage, pushing into him before he spontaneously combusts. I poke my engorged head through the first ring of muscle and stop, planning to let him adjust, but he throws his legs around my waist, locking his ankles and lifting his hips, forcing me to sink into him fully. He squeezes fiercely, inciting me to exclaim, “Jesus, Justin. Relax. You’re about to pinch my dick clean off. As far as I know we both still intend to use it for years to come.” He’s so worked up he’s shaking violently, and I gently rub small circles on his abdomen, careful not to move my hips and using my weight to hold his firmly, preventing him from thrusting. He covers his fuchsia face with his hands and I breathe, “Shhhh. Shhhh,” in an effort to slow his blood from the rapidly rolling boil it had reached. I know I’m masterful, but fuck! It dawns on me that my suspicion is apparently on target. He doesn’t trick at all, not even when I’m out of town. Shit, Justin. This was four days. The phone and cybersex don’t seem to have done the job of sustaining him. What if I have to go away for a week? Two? I fear for our physical well being when I finally return! I wipe his drenched hair away from his brow, asking, “Better?” 

He nods, calmed, his fevered eyes glistening. “Mmm hmm.” I delay a little longer, leaning forward to kiss him superficially. Fully recovered, he taunts, “Don’t feel bad. It’s o.k. to admit I’m just too much for you to handle. After all, I’m still near my peak and you’re…maturing.”

“Fuck you.”

“That’s exactly what I’m trying to get you to do,” he teases, squeezing his ass around me.

The lad’s throwing down the gauntlet, is he? Not wise. Not wise at all. “You want me balls to your walls? You got it. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Pulling his bottom lip between his teeth, he propels his hips, resuming our suspended endeavor. I slather his hole with lube, pushing into him hard, backing completely out before I plough in again and replaying it, my strokes long and slow but deliberately forceful. He grunts strenuously at the nadir of each penetration, whimpering when I vacate him, his rabid pleas for me to accelerate streaming out in an ascending falsetto. In response I taper off, letting his furor subside before rebuilding it, inflating it more and more with each cycle until he’s crazed, his head thrashing from side to side, one hand seizing his own hair while his alternate arm lays flung over his face. I slam into him as hard and deep as I’m able, holding my position, bearing down to my limit. It’s his undoing. He wails unprecedentedly, his eyes rolling back in his head, his back semi-circular. He grips his erupting dick, becoming altogether unglued as he rides out a mother of an orgasm. Of course his mania unhinges me as well, and by the time we’ve fully expelled our loads the notion of surpassing Daphne’s euphoric experience seems ill conceived.

With the pittance of energy he has in reserve he sputters, “Uuuuuhhhhhhh. I think we sprinted full out when we were supposed to be pacing ourselves for a marathon.” I chuckle, or mean to, but it comes out sounding like a sick buffalo.

However, this is me. And Justin. I can’t definitively declare which one of us is less inclined to surrender in the face of a challenge, but I’m certain we’re battling for the first and second place rankings. After a very necessary intermission, he rolls on top of me, goading, “Let’s go. You’re in stellar condition. I mean, if you can ride, what? Four hundred miles on a bike while recovering from radiation, most of them in excruciating pain with one arm in a sling, you certainly have the stamina to fuck me a few times.”

“I have to note once again that your pillow talk is deplorable.” He sits up, straddling me, holding my wrists against the bed. No need. I have no inclination to fight him. He’s welcome to do some of the work this time. 

“I don’t have to worry about sweeping you off of your feet,” he jokes. “It takes no effort whatsoever to get you horizontal. As for stimulating you…” he notes, reaching back to revive me, succeeding surprisingly quickly, “…that takes no effort whatsoever either.” With a satisfied smile he skewers himself on my dick, proudly at attention yet again, rocking and systematically constricting around me until I arch and cry out, my hands secured to his hips, striving to gain some semblance of control over the tempo, my feet harshly pointed, toes curled to a degree Baryshnikov would envy. I come before him, catching my breath as I watch him conclude, assisting him with a fist around his plum colored cock. I love watching his face when he comes. I don’t think I’ll ever tire of it. Unbelievably, the vision instigates a modest jolt in my exploited crotch. Are you serious? All those years thinking that sucking the same dick repeatedly would get stale…I had no inkling that lurking out there somewhere was this little blond Energizer bunny. Adding another layer to the fluids we’ve generated, he flops back on the bed like a flounder. I light a smoke, blissfully drawing the poison into my lungs. He bats those baby blues at me and I reach over to place it between his lips, granting him a long drag before taking my next. We share the cigarette until it’s burned down to the filter and I retrieve another which he immediately nabs. “This is no time to be resting on your laurels, Mr. Kinney. The score is…”

“Was there some outrageous time constraint involved I wasn’t made aware of?” I inquire snippily.

Rubbing his nose against my shoulder, running his fingers lightly up and down my arm, his intonation gravel filled, he commands,“Roll over.” 

I sigh deeply, turning my head to catch his eye. He kisses me chastely and tries to flip me, but I’m dead weight. “O.k. You can have one more.”

Caustically I chirp, “Can I? Golly, you’re the best!” Unruffled, he jumps up to procure some desperately needed hydration for both of us. 

Quenched, I roll to set the bottle down and he opportunistically hops on my back. I sink into nirvana as he begins rubbing my shoulders, digging therapeutically into the muscles, and I groan more enthusiastically than if he was sucking me off. Contented by my approval, he kneads my neck, my arms, traveling proficiently down my back. He had taken a shiatsu class when I was having my little problem…when I couldn’t…um, when the only woody in my life was the guy who owns the bar I frequent. His inimitable logic leading to his hypothesis that the relaxation would cure all my ills. It worked as well as drinking tepid bat shit. Still, the class proved to be a worthy investment. Muscles loosen facilely in my calves and thighs under his dexterous manipulations, leaving me inordinately happy. I’m a stone’s throw from comatose when he runs a single finger up my inner thigh. Carefully massaging my cheeks, he use the motion to separate them, sliding his tongue along my crack. Boing! So much for a nap. That’s quite all right. Our previous recreation has me savoring the thought of him inside me, made all the more seductive by his current assumption of authority. Ironically his sluggish progression, influenced by both of us losing a bit of steam at this point, only serves to build a more robust arousal.

After adequate attention has been paid orally to my hole, he pours a generous amount of lube on it along with his fingers, delving in and rooting around voraciously, preparing a slick chute for himself. He’s relentless, and it feels so amazing I don’t want him to ever stop. He shoves a couple of pillows under me, raising my ass to a workable level for himself, and he presses his sheathed cock against me. I automatically raise up a little more, trying to facilitate his penetration. But he holds back, rubbing his head against my ravenous opening. He repeatedly teases me, centering his tip and pressing, but not hard enough to enter. It’s making me insane. Serves me right. He learned this trick from me. I have to rethink how I torment him in the future if he’s going to retaliate. I attempt to ambush him, jerking back the next time he approaches, but he’s wise to me. Backing away, he leans over and kisses tiny incremental steps down my spine until he arrives at the dimples on my lower back, digging his tongue into each, swirling, then running it back up from there to the base of my neck. My resistance, lowered by fatigue, fails to thwart unintended utterances, which is how I wind up begging him to plunge his hard burning rod into me. I fucking HATE being reduced to pleading, but I can’t help myself, the anticipation welling up unbearably.

He complies, expecting to poke just the head past my tight ring, letting me stretch as comfortably as possible. Those plans are ignored, much as my identical ones earlier were, as I sit back onto his cock, his shaft sinking deep. The pain is a small price to pay for the rapture that accompanies it, and he concurs, moaning emphatically. He withdraws, then drives deep. And again, methodically, precisely. Leaning his weight on his hands set on the small of my back, my spine shifts slightly, but that sliver makes all the difference in the world. Now stroking my prostate on each entry and departure, his pumping hastens, each strike forcing my inflamed cock to rub against the pillows beneath me, the colors only he invites flashing bright and strong behind my eyelids. I don’t want this to end. Not yet. It feels too fucking awesome. But the friction of the pillowcase against…oh, Christ... I raise myself just a hair by pulling my knees under me, just enough to preserve my sanity. Aware of my goal, he reaches around and squeezes the base of my shaft, all but halting the swing of his hips. He presses his lips against my back, slumping over me, his dick creeping in and out as he gears up for a fresh onslaught. Flexing his hips, he escalates once more, soundly pounding me, my throbbing dick still dragging along the pillow to an excruciating degree. Reaching behind me to clutch his ass, his thigh, anything I can get my hand on, I sink my fingers into his flesh, emitting muffled sounds with my face smashed against the mattress. I’m so close, I just need…I don’t know. I can’t think. I just need to come. So fucking badly. The sensitivity of my cock grinding against the cotton while he bulldozes my ass…I’m losing my mind. I reach for my dick to stroke myself, but just a hint of a touch to the tip and I spout like the penis fountain in Amsterdam’s “Red Light” district. His yelps indicate I’m clamping down on him fiercely, and I feel his dick pulsate inside me. I crumple, gripping him to me when he starts to slide out, urging him to stay. This is the first time I’ve made that request, even non-verbally, and an emotional whimper ekes out of him. He lays on top of me, embedded in me for a good long while, sporadically kissing my shoulder blades and rubbing his face on my back. 

Finally extracting himself and tumbling off of me, he huffs, “If this is what a couple of days apart does for our appetite, you can fly back to Pittsburgh for business regularly. Even if it does make you a liar.” I crinkle my face at him in puzzlement. “You said at Christmas your ticket here was one way.”

With an indulgent laugh, I bump his shoulder with mine. “That was a touchingly beautiful _symbolic_ gesture, dickhead. Though I’m not surprised the subtlety was lost on you, your style being much less refined.” 

“This coming from the poster boy for subtlety.” I just smile, chuckling softly. This is true.

“I can’t remember ever needing a shower more,” I remark, flipping over and peering at my caked torso.

“I’ll scrub your back. Or whatever else needs scrubbing,” he offers with an eyebrow wiggle. Groaning like an eighty year old man as he gets up, he begins to walk toward the bathroom.

“Right behind you,” I respond wearily, not moving an inch.

“Just where I like you,” he says, grabbing my hand and pulling me up.

An hour an a half later, our clean, used up bodies crashed out on clean sheets, he notes, “Well, I think this achieved second place on the list of our all time longest fuck sessions.” I turn my face to him with a wondering expression. “The first time I went home… to Pittsburgh, I mean, after I moved here. Remember? We went at it for like twenty four hours straight. I couldn’t walk right for a week.” I kiss his cheek, smirking at the memory. “But this probably surpassed the Viagra experience. Besides, that should really be disqualified on the basis of performance enhancing substances.” 

“Just second?” I ask, sighing deeply, acting put upon. “Seems my work is never done.” I roll to him, my hand slithering down his belly. Not feeling the need to overtake our prior first place episode, he battles my advances and we wrestle playfully.

“We should buy Daphne a beer,” he suggests.

“For provoking this fuck-a-thon?”

“No. She’s bound to be parched…after eating our dust.” Grinning at each other, we settle in for some well earned slumber.

*************************

**Justin’s POV**

I’m primping in the bathroom mirror when I hear Brian stir, asking, “What time is it? Did you shut off the alarm?”

I call out, “Yeah, but it wouldn’t have gone off yet. You can go back to sleep for a little bit if you want. I’ll make sure you’re up in time.”

“Why don’t you come back to bed? I’m sure we can think of a better way to pass the time than sleeping.”

Jesus Christ! Insatiable doesn’t even begin to describe this man. The effects of our fuckfest yesterday are clearly not hindering him in the least. “Later. After. I still have to figure out exactly what I’m going to say before we leave.”

“Come to bed then,” he urges. “Where better to find a strrrroke of inspiration?” Ugh. That was bad. His voice strained as he stretches, he informs me, “The limo’s picking us up first, then we’ll go get your mom and Molly.”

“You ordered a limo?”

“I thought it was appropriate.”

O.k. He’s forgiven for the lame joke. I walk to the arch separating the bathroom from the bedroom, thanking him with my smile.

“Holy shit,” he extols, sitting upright.

I turn to the full length mirror at the foot of the bed. “That’s exactly what you said when I first tried this on.”

“As always, I was right.” He crawls out of bed, standing behind me in the mirror, smoothing the shoulders and back of the jacket. “You haven’t worn this since our no-need-for-a-rehearsal dinner.” The statement settles like sediment, a drop of something solemn in the air.

“Do you still think I look beautiful in it?”

“I do,” he croons in my ear. I smile broadly at his reflection and note the twinkle in his eye. It’s then I have my delayed reaction, getting it. I turn, taking his face in my hands and kiss him deeply. I drag my thumb across his lips and he kisses it before drawing it into his mouth, sucking it seductively. It’s like a direct line to my cock, which promptly bolts upright. My eyes affix to his, already set on mine with a soft intensity, and we marinate in the thick silence.

I speak, broken and throaty. “If you keep looking at me like that, I won’t even need you touch me to get off.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” he replies soberly, his gaze unwavering. He reaches forward and slips the jacket from my shoulders.

“Brian…” I can hardly breathe. “We don’t have time.” I gulp as his long fingers unfasten my shirt button by button. I give it one final unconvincing attempt. “We CANNOT be late today. We just can’t.” 

“I promise,” he attests, undeterrably intent and absorbed in his task, his eyes brimming with an adoration I can’t possibly resist.

I hang the clothes carefully, placing them on the hook inside the closet door. “Come over here,” he instructs sweetly. I climb into the comfort of into his arms, and it’s like stepping into a warm bath. Laying beside me, he holds his hand up and I slide my fingers against his until our palms meet, our fingers folding into each other.

He kisses my mouth, my face, my neck, then my mouth again, his tongue licking gingerly at my lips. We press together, every movement exquisitely intimate. He runs his hand down my side, snaking it between us, surrounding both our dicks, rubbing them together like two sticks starting a fire. When it become too much, I twist, curling into him until we’re a tangle of legs and arms. He kisses the nape of my neck, blowing cool air onto the sultry skin and silky baby hair. We make love not just with our bodies but with the whole of our selves, with everything that is us. It’s the utopian kind of lovemaking that’s a compilation of gentle caresses, tender touches and heartfelt whispers of devotion…all the things he fought so long not to say. 

Despite his failed humor, his point was valid. There’s no better inspiration for the words I need to say later than to transport me to a place where I can wholly identify what this day is truly about.

*************************

**Brian’s POV**

When Lindsay approached me asking for a little favor, the weensy one about fathering her child, I remember thinking, “What the fuck.” She and Mel wanted a kid, Lindsay was born to be a mother, and Mel could without a doubt be a better dad than the one inflicted upon me. Besides, I wasn’t expected to do anything but jerk off, a task I was certainly up to (pun intended). That would be the extent of my involvement. If I’m honest, I guess the whole immortality concept played a small role too. Nobody ever accused me of not having enough of an ego. But then Gus was born. Walking into that hospital room, dykes parting like the Red Sea revealing this little pink phenomenon…it’s completely inexplicable. He wasn’t theoretical anymore. He was real, an actual little human being who was half me. Holding him that first time, a feeling unlike anything I had ever imagined existed took hold of me. I’m reminded of that now, under the spell of a very different but equally as unimagined feeling. The minister could be dancing a naked jig. It wouldn’t even register. Because the sight of him standing there is almost spiritual, mythically beautiful in that suit, flawlessly backlit by radiantly hued light tinted from its journey through the stained glass, framed by delicate flowers and flickering candles. I’m utterly captivated, mesmerized, breathless.  

“Tucker, you may kiss your bride.”

The applause and celebratory rumblings are muted in my ears, and as he walks down the aisle past me he catches my dazed expression.

Caught in the flow of the crowd, I’m swept into the vestibule where he immediately finds me. “Hey. Are you…is something wrong?”

I take his hands in mine, barely a thread’s width between us. “Are you sorry we didn’t do this?”

“I thought ‘sorry’ was bullshit.”

“It is. I just mean…”

“No explanations. Sorry’s either an apology or a regret, right? Both of which are inherently forbidden in the Kinney credo.”

“Would you stop fucking throwing my words back in my face and answer the god damned question?”

I cringe at my own tone, well aware that he’s been nervous this day would be tense for us and he’s only trying to lighten the mood. I’m not helping. His demeanor shifts, and raking the back of his fingers along my jawline he placates me, soothingly insisting, “No, I’m not sorry. We know we love each other. We don’t need to recite vows to prove our commitment or have it validated by the straight world in some contrived ceremony they invented. I wouldn’t change what we have for anything.” He wraps his arms around my neck, tightly embracing me as I clasp him in return. We stand amidst the migrating crowd holding each other, and I have to smile at the irony that I need him to reinforce my own doctrine.                        

Not letting go, my hand stroking the hair on the back of his head, I offer, “I still would, you know.”

He squeezes a smidge harder, lifting himself up on his toes. “I know. That’s why I don’t need you to.”

For Christ’s sake! I release him enough to look him in the face, rolling my eyes though in reality I’m charmed. “No wonder I can’t figure you out. So you mean if I had just proposed years ago, we could have still _not_ gotten married and avoided all the bullshit you dragged me through?”

“That’s not funny,” he pouts.

“It’s a little bit funny,” I nudge, holding my fingers a fraction of an inch apart. “This much?”

He slaps my hand. “You know better than to make that gesture to a fag. To any male for that matter. Do you want people to get the wrong idea?” Good point.

I laugh, taking his face in my hands and kissing him fondly. “Come on. Let’s go show these pathetic losers how to party.”

*************************

**Justin’s POV**

There’s a special place in hell reserved for whoever came up with the notion of the receiving line. What a fucking nightmare! If one more person tells me they’ve known me since I was “thiiiiiis big,” or delightedly regales me with stories of how they changed my diapers I’m going to puke on them. And this is a small affair. I shudder to think what torture my mom had to endure at her original three ring circus. 

Finally seated, I listen to the announcement of the bandleader. The couple of honor spinning around the floor in their first dance is a sight I can’t disapprove of. You just can’t argue with how happy they look. As the song ends, Mom motions to me, encouraging me to join her on the dance floor. Yippee. Brian shoves me in the back, giving me his don’t-be-an-asshole glare. Begrudgingly I step onto the floor, gather her in my arms and relent. 

She rests her head against my cheek, gleeful. “I finally got my dance.”

“Seems like an awful lot to go through just to dance with me,” I tease. She smacks the back of my head affectionately. “I’m happy for you, Mom.” Suspicion clouds her face. “I mean it.”

“Thank you, sweetheart,” she says, kissing my cheek and pulling me close.

When the song ends we return to the table where her ass is barely in the chair before Brian holds his hand out, asking, “Do I get to dance with the bride?”

Glowing, she takes his outstretched hand and follows him to the dance floor. Debbie swoops into Brian’s abandoned seat, patting my thigh. “Giving you boys second thoughts about your second thoughts?”

“No, Deb. We’re happy just the way we are.”

“Good for you, Sunshine.” She observes a waltzing Brian with maternal fondness, and as the music fades she wonders aloud, “What the fuck do you think he’s saying to her?” He must have busted out his mushy side because Mom’s hand flies over her mouth, then pets the side of his face. She nods, tears streaking down her cheek, and kisses him gently. He actually looks… sheepish.

He leaves her, approaching the band as Debbie high tails it to Mom for the scoop. I’m struggling to watch both interactions, trying to unravel the mystery. With a piercing sob Debbie dashes, intercepting Brian on his way back to the table, swallowing him in a suffocating hug and leaving bright red lipstick marks on his face, wiping them off roughly with her hand. This is a little over the top, even for Debbie. What the fuck could he have possibly said? He kisses her forehead and strides to my side.

“What was all that about?” I laugh.

“I wanted to make sure this was o.k. with your mom.”

“What, us? A little late, don’t you think? Six years late.”

He just looks at me with a sweet smile, his face soft and open, the cynic in him temporarily discarded. Reaching for my hand, he leads me to the center of the dance floor, the music starting. Our hips move instinctually together as if we’re on autopilot.

“Did you request _this_? Some corny old song?” From his lack of reaction you’d think he didn’t hear me, but I know him too well. He guides me, floating across the floor. “You weren’t at Mel and Lindsey’s and I wasn’t at Ben and Michael’s, so I had no clue that weddings made you…”

“Ridiculously romantic?” he finishes, his smile tinged bittersweet. 

It’s all distantly familiar. The loft, all the furniture pushed aside, the rug rolled up, Brian telling me to close my eyes. “Wait, is this…?”

“I want one we both remember.”

Dramatically, I arch my neck back, goofing light-heartedly with a theatric delivery, “Because I’m the love of your life.”

Cupping my face, he lays levity to the side, the pad of his thumb slowly traversing the arc of my eyebrow. With a voice simultaneously ethereal and crackling with emotion he croons, “You are.” 

Those two words, two simple syllables hatch a swarm of butterflies which invade the pit of my stomach. Goosebumps are dispatched across my flesh, every hair on my body standing up on end, and suddenly my heart’s pounding so loud it’s nearly drowning out the music. His eyes bore a hole right through me, revealing Daphne’s description of the night he’s recreating couldn’t have been more apt. _Every single person on earth dreams that someone will look at them like that at least once in their life._ Oblivion sets in, anyone or anything else in the room vanishing. I’m totally unaware that the floor has cleared, its prior inhabitants now our audience. It’s like a fantasy, whirling across the floor in his arms, feet barely skimming the ground. How the fuck do we even know how to dance like this? But nothing could feel more natural, our bodies effortlessly moving as one, dipping and twirling, executing the steps impeccably. Our eyes are locked, grinning together as if there’s some fabulous secret only we know. 

As the song ends our dance builds to a finale, Brian crowning it with a flourish, artfully spinning me amid clapping from the numerous onlookers. He looks entirely at ease, as if he’s at last exorcised long unshakable demons. Dewey eyed, I ask him dreamily, “Were we as amazing as that night?”

“More,” he confirms, his voice breaking. Leaning in, he stops just short of my lips, something profound in his eyes I can’t pinpoint. Softly but confidently, definitively, he whispers, “I love you.” Time slows, immersing us in our spellbinding kiss, one as poignant as a first kiss but more intimate, more steeped in meaning. Again Daphne’s idyllic recollection proves authentic, because this isn’t just a “Gee, that was fun” kiss, or even a hot, steamy, sexy kiss. It’s unquestionably an “I love you to the depths of my soul” kiss. And with it I’m granted one of those illusive moments of perfection I can hold in my heart for the rest of my life.

*************************

**Brian POV**

That memory wasn’t supposed to be mine alone. It was meant to be ours. Together. I had to find a way to share it, to reclaim it with him, to restore it for him… but with a significant improvement. This time I finish it right. I put words to what I couldn’t then. What I didn’t know. Didn’t understand. Abjectly feared.

It’s still vastly uncharted waters for me and I feel rudderless more often than I’m comfortable with. But that seems inherent in the condition, and he’s worth every disquieting moment. Besides, I have no choice. My love for him is inextricable, as much a part of me as my blood, my bones, my basic genetic map.

Despite the fact that it’s inconceivable to me (and always will be), I’ll forever be grateful that one night six years ago, a night that started out remarkably ordinary, took a magical turn in a split second and became extraordinary when what I intended to be just another slick pick up line instead proved to be an unwitting prophecy.

_“Where you headed?”_

_“No place special.”_

_“I can change that.”_

 

 

**The End  
** (or...read the sequel, [Into the Sunset](http://astele.co.uk/BJfic/Chapter/Details/viewstory.php?sid=10499))


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